Wednesday, July 4th
The sound of light rain on the tent woke me from a good night’s sleep. I dozed for a short while and by the time I got up it had stopped and the sun had come out. I boiled water on the Trangia stove and made my customary mug of strong, black unsweetened coffee. As I sat in the entrance to the tent, I thought about the day ahead and worried whether my leg would be up to the pedalling. The signs were promising. There wasn't the slightest twinge of discomfort on the walk to the loo, let alone pain, to remind me that I had suffered so badly the day before.
I packed everything away, but the result was a mess. I still ended up with a badly balanced load held in place by elastic bands. Then I started off and instantly, I was stabbed deep in the back of my left leg at every turn of the pedal, and I knew for certain that something was seriously wrong. There was no way that I was going to be able to cycle; from years of playing football, I knew how long a muscle pull in the leg would take to heal. If past form was anything to go by, I would be out of action for at least three weeks.
'Drat!'
But, I had mentally prepared myself the previous day. I had decided that as long as I could walk, then I should be able to cover the miles at a rate somewhere between walking and cycling as I could still cover ground downhill at speed in freewheeling mode. And, there was no way I was going to give up now. I thought about the purpose of the trip. To get away on my own was the main priority and if I ended up walking and catching trains and buses, so be it. There was still a journey to be made and much to think about on the way.
For a mile and a half I ‘wheeed’ down the hill towards Ross, following the route of the scary bus ride the evening before, until I reached the main roundabout at its junction with the A40. As soon as I came on to the mile section of dual carriageway that leads up to the start of the M50 and Ross Spur, I was forced to get off and push. There was a slight gradient that, even with the big load, would normally have caused me no problem, but now my leg was shot. As I walked up the hard shoulder, a continuous procession of traffic, including scores of heavy lorries, fanned me with their wind, and my snail-like progress deflated me. I had wanted to take my breakfast in Ledbury, some twelve miles away on the A449, but it now looked as if it would have to be skipped; by the time I reached Ledbury it would probably be lunchtime. Just as I approached the roundabout where the Ledbury road left the busy dual carriageway, an idea came to me. The pain I was getting only came when I was pedalling - walking presented no problem at all. Not only that, but it kicked in at the bottom of each revolution and disappeared once that point had been passed.
'Maybe, if I lower the saddle, my leg will be less extended and it might help.' I leaned over, freed the quick release mechanism on the saddle post and twisted the saddle down two inches. Cocking my leg over the load, I tapped the pedal back with my toe to give me some drive with my right leg and pushed off. Tally Ho! It worked. I couldn't believe it at first, and I cautiously monitored every turn of the pedal, waiting for the stab ... but it didn't come.
I yelled out, ‘YES!’
As the hedgerows now jubilantly flashed past, I pondered the miracle. I must have had the saddle a bit high yesterday and suffered an over-extension injury of some kind. Perhaps a ligament or tendon had been overstretched rather like a weak spring, and of course, at my age, once it had gone, it was totally gone. But, now, lowering the saddle, the injured part was not being asked to work to its limit and it could function again … FANTASTIC!
On the other hand, it did feel strange. I had often noticed others with their bikes set up incorrectly. Too low a saddle makes them look comical as they go along with their bent legs rising up towards the handlebars somewhere in the region of their ears. Too high a saddle looks painful, as the rider has to slew his or her bum alternately from side to side to reach the pedals. I sensed that my low saddle coupled with my short legs might make me look like Toulouse Lautrec on wheels. The miles disappeared behind me, and it looked as if I would have breakfast after all – just as well, I was getting hungry. As I reached the traffic lights in Ledbury, I turned left on to the High Street and started to look for somewhere to eat. I coasted down the main drag and noticed the tourist information office. I didn't really want to forestall breakfast any longer, but I thought I'd try to keep ahead of the game and find a campsite for the night en route. I needn't have bothered.
The tourist information lady explained, 'Where you're going is out of our area. You're going too far east - we've got no information at all. Sorry.'
I had more luck with my next question, ‘Can you suggest somewhere I might get a good breakfast in Ledbury?’
‘Just up the hill there on the left next door to the bakery.’ Content with this information, I wheeled my bike up the hill. To be on the safe side, I decided to unload, and chained my bike to a parking sign pole, feeling like John Wayne tying up outside a saloon (but doubtless looking one thousand times less cool). I clumsily crossed the threshold of the cafe, wielding my rucksack with all its bits hanging off, and thankfully sat at a table to order a rather late breakfast. I was served a mighty portion and the lady acceded to my request to fill my thermos with tap water and ice. Still, I felt a little Dick Turpined when I saw the bill. Perhaps I had been spoiled by the numerous breakfasts that Cherie and I had ‘stolen’ from Messrs ASDA, Tesco, Safeway or Lord Sainsbury for the minimal price they charge, secure in the belief you will spend a fortune elsewhere in the store. We never bought anything else after the meal, and in so doing, felt we scored a minor victory against the giant corporations.
I left the café, again man-handling the weighty rucksack that forced me into an awkward and exaggerated gait. As I untied my aluminium horse, a lady came out from the shop across the pavement to apologise for rearranging my bike after it had fallen down around its parking pole prop. Still tethered by the U Lock it must have been quite a feat for her to get it upright again. We British really are so polite. Not only had the kind lady, who was not young by any means, taken the time and trouble to struggle and to pull my bike back to dignity, but she felt the need to come and say sorry, presumably in case I noticed that some tampering had been going on. Needless to say, as I humped my rucksack thankfully to the floor, it would have been the last thing I would have noticed.
Ledbury was by now quite busy, as I loaded up and set off through the town maintaining the heading on which I had arrived. At the end of the main street, there were no relevant sign posts to indicate my route. I stopped and pondered for a while before heading off left down a hill. Something didn't seem right, but I kept going until a roundabout forced me left again. By now it was clear I was on a bypass and I had lost my bearings. I took out the compass that I never really expected to use, and confirmed that I was going the wrong way. I turned the bike around and started to trundle back up the hill that only minutes before I had whizzed down. In a car, this would have been nothing, but I was not in a car and this was an energetic detour that I could have well done without, having only covered sixteen miles. Stoical, rather than annoyed, I vowed to take more care next time.
Why didn’t I look at the compass before setting off? It would have told me straight away the general direction I should have been heading. Sometimes I just don't think. It is a failing of mine.
I turned right, once more into Ledbury's main street; and, as I headed uphill back towards the café and the traffic lights, I was confronted with a view I had seen before - it was like looking at a photo. Riding back from Bicester shopping village on our motorbike a few years before, Cherie and I had taken the scenic route through the Cotswolds taking in Hereford, Chipping Norton and Ledbury. Now, I was approaching the High Street from the same direction I had seen it that day. The sadness hit me like an adrenalin rush. Suddenly I was back with Cherie. My chest heaved and tears fell on my cheeks and I was totally overcome with grief. A few moments later, my despair was replaced with a warm glow that rippled through the whole of my body and I felt in it an overwhelming benevolence and closeness to the one I missed so much. I also saw the same pub she had spotted that warm late summer’s afternoon.
Typically, Cherie was thinking food as her voice cut in through the intercom, ‘Shall we call in, Tony?’
‘What do you reckon, or would you rather keep going?’ We still had quite a way to go. Did we really want to stop?
‘May as well stop, I could do with something to eat.’ So we parked the bike up on the road and explored a side alley that led into a secluded beer garden tastefully planted, with the scent of honeysuckle hanging in the air. Half a dozen trestle tables were taken but, ominously, no one was eating food.
‘You’ve been riding all day. I’ll go and see what’s going on …’ Cherie took off her helmet and her hair fell about her shoulders. Flicking it nonchalantly into place, she placed her lid and gloves on the table and continued ‘… What do you want?’
‘I don’t mind – anything.’ I often let Cherie choose my food. More often than not, when I picked from a menu, I would look across at Cherie and her meal would be far more appealing than my own. She would always take time to pore over the prospective delights and would regularly have trouble selecting from them. A popular solution was to pick two different meals for herself, give one to me then we would swap half way through.
‘What do you want to drink?’
‘Anything soft.’ I never touched alcohol on the bike. Cherie left her helmet and gloves on the table and disappeared. Minutes later she returned with a scowl carrying two drinks and some crisp packets tucked under her armpits.
‘No bloody food!’ It bothered her more than it did me.
This memorable little interlude of no particular significance played out before me again. I carried on up the High Street to the traffic lights and realised that, had I turned left, instead of right after breakfast and my chat with the bike- righting lady from the shop, I would have been on the correct road in twenty seconds. I blamed the lady for distracting me, but thanked her the same time. I would never have had that flashback had I not approached Ledbury from the north, as Cherie and I had done on that balmy afternoon.
The temperature soared as the sun climbed in the sky; and, as I made my way towards Pershore, my leg ominously started to play up once more despite the lower saddle position. Cycling was now a real grind and I tried to ease what was discomfort, rather than real pain, by easing the pressure on the pedals and inevitably slowing down to little more than a crawling pace. I was demoralised, only half way into my second day, and I decided I would look for more salubrious accommodation that night. If I could get a room in a pub or a cheap hotel, I could have a bath and maybe the hot water would improve my leg.
A seemingly deserted pub called The Gay Dog showed signs of life as I passed by. I silently argued with myself whether or not I should go in for a drink. Catching sight of a definite light in one of the windows tipped the balance; I turned sharply to make the second entrance into the car park. Propping the bike out of sight around the back of the building, I walked from the brightness of the day into a dark spacious room with a heavily patterned carpet, to join the only other people in the pub - one couple and the bar man. I resisted the sensible option of a long soft drink, and ordered a pint of Strongbow. Chatting to my three new companions, and with my thirst sharpened from hours of pedalling in the hot sun, I was soon on to my second.
The male half of the couple was the chef at the pub and it turned out he used to work in Port Talbot (I chose not to ask him if he remembered a football team called Cornelly United). Coincidentally, the woman’s mother came from Merthyr - Welsh people are everywhere, it seemed. I moaned to them about my leg and asked if they knew of any hotels or pubs I could stay in around the Pershore area. The bar man was very helpful. He looked up a place he knew in his Yellow Pages, and also phoned before handing me the receiver. I booked a room for the night; although I felt a little wimpy, I told myself that I deserved it, having battled through the day with my injury. Sorely tempted to get a third drink, I managed to resist, and said thanks and cheerio to the tiny gathering.
As I set off, my legs felt like I was wearing concrete wellies and my soul was equally weighed down. Within a matter of hundred yards, I passed over a major landmark – the M5 motorway. I got off the bike and spent a few minutes looking north as the route, busy as usual, disappeared towards the horizon. North was the direction I should have been going, were it not for the fact that I had decided to go up the east side of Britain. Still, the M5, a major north/south artery, was a milestone, marking my lateral progress across Britain and drawing a line between The West and The Midlands. As I leaned on the railing overlooking the stream of traffic, it reminded me of driving up to Liverpool to see Cherie's parents, before we abandoned the motorway in favour of the route through Wales. The flashback compounded my melancholy demeanour and filled me with a forlorn sadness. As the columns of cars and lorries filed like never ending trains under my feet, the sight of a lone motorbike took me back to a trip Cherie and I had made four years earlier when we had an old Kawasaki GT 750.
We had set off from Merthyr headed for West Wales to catch the ferry from Fishguard to Rosslaire. Then, we took the coast road north to Dublin, eventually meeting up with Gareth, a friend who had moved back to Bangor near Belfast. Like us, Gareth enjoyed a drink and we naturally gravitated towards the pubs as we were given a guided tour of Bangor. At our third alehouse, we settled at a bay window table overlooking a dark sea as alcohol accelerated the camaraderie.
Suddenly, Cherie interrupted the smooth flow of banter and laughter, ‘What’s that?’
We followed the line of her finger and could just make out a white smudge on the grey canvas of the sea.
‘Is it a ship?’ Gareth went for the most likely option.
‘It can’t be; it’s the wrong shape.’ I could see that the mystery object had no lines to define it and added speculatively ‘… I think it’s a UFO!’ We all laughed.
‘Yes, it’s got to be a UFO,’ Cherie agreed, and we all went on to develop the theory to ridiculous extremes that we found immensely funny. The truth though, remained a total enigma. Despite the fact we were more taken by the fantasy than the fact, casual glances out to sea confirmed that the UFO was getting bigger. Eventually, the clear lines of a ship could be distinguished although the vessel itself only made up a fraction of the total - the bulk of what we could see was seemingly, a huge white cloud. Gareth’s eyes narrowed and his face registered the retrieval of something from his subconscious.
‘I think it could be one of those new ferries. They work on the same principle as a jet ski – they’re twice as fast as normal ferries.’
Cherie had the best eyesight, ‘Yes, it looks like a water jet coming out the back of the ship.’
The ship quickly drew closer and it was confirmed. As the afternoon wore on, we returned to the subject of the new style ferry. I was captivated by the idea of a ferry that worked like a jet ski and an idea occurred to me.
I put it to Cherie, ‘Do you think we could change our tickets? Instead of going back the way we came, maybe we could take the jet-ski ferry across to Scotland and ride back to Wales that way.’ It was appealing, not only because I wanted to have a go on the new ferry, but also because neither of us had been to Scotland before.
‘I don’t mind, Dear,’ was Cherie’s predictable answer. ‘It’s up to you.’ We debated the possible pros and cons but decided that if, with little extra expense it could be organised, it would be more of an adventure than retracing our steps back through Ireland to Rosslaire.
It was a bad decision. For one thing, it meant we didn't start our journey until late afternoon because of the ferry times. It also meant we didn't make any progress south, something we would have done if we had set off at nine o'clock in the morning. And, this happened to be a time when there was a north/south split in the weather - the north getting battered with wind and rain while the south was bathed in glorious sunshine. Of course, we now got the former. We rode off the ferry at Stranraer in a deluge, to find there were no campsites as we continued to head east, passing not far from Lockerbie on the A75. The daylight had a right to be there but the weather stole it, as we passed not a single village. For some reason, every settlement had been engineered off the route with a bypass. Only signposts indicated with a large ‘D’ shape, places such as Creetown, Twynholm and Leaths that must have existed out of sight of the road. As the bike buzzed dependably between our legs through puddles, Cherie and I rode on in silence as the rain pummelled us.
We took a detour into Dumfries to get some cash from a machine, but had to slog onwards for another hour until, as night fell early somewhere between Gretna Green and Carlisle, we at last saw a sign for a campsite. Following occasional wigwam signposts along winding country lanes for an interminable five miles more, we eventually entered the grounds of a grand castle and paid a king's ransom for the privilege of taking up the space required for a motorbike and a two-man tent.
As this memory passed before me, Cherie took centre stage and I saw the two of us, together once more. My heart fell away as I remembered how she used to be. How many women have I met that would put up with things as Cherie did. It was completely my idea to come through Scotland and it had been lousy one. We discovered later that the weather had been fine further south. If we had stuck to our original plan and headed down through Ireland at the beginning of the day, we needn't have even got wet. But Cherie hadn't held it against me or once complained. There had been no groans when the night joined the rain and long hours in the saddle made our bums sore. Spludging in grass, that turned to mud in seconds, not a single grumble as we unrolled our instantly soaked tent. In our full leather biking gear, covered with one piece waterproofs, every movement was a challenge and we must have looked like Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin in their moon suits as we struggled to put our tent together - but not a murmur of dissent. Ever pragmatic, Cherie had the ability to put her thoughts into actions. I wondered how she made keeping calm look so simple and I felt my love for her well up.
I stayed a minute longer on the bridge over the M5 and the sadness started to shrink. I took a photograph to remind me of the scene and the moment, then mounted and set off. After just a few minutes, I felt strangely rejuvenated and my pace picked up as I quickly covered the four miles to Pershore. I found my accommodation straight away, an old coaching inn in the centre of town. Once more hiding my bike around the back to avoid unloading, I went to book in. The reception area was lavishly furnished with an oak balustrade that curved impressively to the first floor. Suddenly, it struck me that I hadn't enquired about the price.
'Sixty pounds for a single, Mr Hill,' replied the young female receptionist.
'Sixty?' I echoed. 'That's too much for me, I'm afraid. Are you prepared to come down on that?’ I was not quite the suited businessman with the executive briefcase, and I suspected that my custom was not really welcome.
'No sir, that's our price.'
'What are you, five star or something?'
'No sir, two star.'
I made my apologies and unbooked the room. The girl was kind enough to make a recommendation though. To her, I must have looked very trail weary, my face bearing the stains of sweat wiped repeatedly with a grubby forearm, and my white tee shirt a top contender for a whiter than white detergent advert. Add to that, the whiff of stale cider on my breath and she had enough evidence to surmise the sort of place that would best suit me. Following her directions, I found the pub and entered a small noisy room with a beer stained carpet and chipped Formica tables crammed with people of all ages. Half fighting my way to the bar, I managed, after several attempts to get myself heard by a large woman with Dickensian breasts.
'Have you got any rooms for tonight?'
'Full up, love,' she said apologetically.
'Damn.' I was cursing the bad luck rather than the lady. The place might have looked a bit rough, but it had a warm and friendly atmosphere and it was only sixteen quid for bed and breakfast. I also had a distinct feeling that there might have been a bit of what the Irish call ‘the craic’ there and I imagined an exciting night might be in store.
A youngish bloke, sitting with some friends, shouted across the bar, 'You can stay with me for a tenner!’ He laughed with his mates.
'You serious?' Suddenly my hopes were revived. Was he joking?
After a short pause he went on, 'Yeah, why not?'
'OK, thanks, I'll take you up on that'. Funny how things fall into place sometimes, isn’t it?
'Do you get up early in the morning?' he asked.
Getting up early was no problem for me, but I put it to him, 'How early?'
'Very early.'
'How early's very early?'
'Five o'clock.'
I was out of luck after all. I didn't mind getting up early, but that was ridiculous. And, I couldn't blame the bloke for wanting a total stranger, out of his place before he left for work. There was no solution - so close yet so far. I didn't bother with a drink, but I did get some information about a pub that did B & B just outside Evesham, about five miles away. I thanked my ‘would be’ landlord and said cheerio as I left.
Pedalling back through Pershore, I was impressed enough by the church to take a photograph, but back on the bike my leg was aching badly and it occurred to me that some medication might be a partial answer. I found a chemist and asked for advice, and ibuprofen was recommended. I can't remember if I took one there and then. Being a man, the sensible and immediate remedy for my aches and pains probably didn't occur to me. Either way I carried on, picked up the A44, and slogged off for Evesham. Half an hour later I found the pub I had been told about back in Pershore. It was now five o'clock but my luck wasn't improving. There was no one around and all the doors were locked. Leaning over a hedge, I managed to get the attention of a neighbour who was noisily cutting his hedge.
'Anyone around, do you know?' I had to repeat the question.
'They should be back soon. I don’t think they’ve gone far.’
I didn't want to hang around though. I was extremely fatigued by now and the thought of waiting an unspecified time only to be told there was no room at the inn, appealed to me even less than moving on. The neighbour told me that there was a campsite a couple of miles down the road. I eventually reached my thankful destination but only after a painful detour of a mile. A man in his late fifties with a grubby striped shirt that might once have been worn with a suit was bending over his belly to fix a lawn mower.
I called over from my bike, ‘Hello, excuse me, I was hoping to camp for the night. Is there a reception around?’
‘I’m the reception.’ The friendly gaffer booked me in on the spot and told me to go anywhere I liked. I chose a patch of welcoming green turf near to the toilet and shower block and set about unloading and setting up camp – it was six o'clock. As soon as I had pitched the tent, I dispensed with unpacking anything else, save my sleeping mat and pillow. I lay down to sleep and I was gone in a minute with the sound of birds twittering in the nearby trees fading to nothingness. Totally zonked for half an hour, I felt refreshed once I had shaken off the sleep and finished unpacking as the Trangia boiled up water for a coffee.
As I sat in the entrance to the tent sipping coffee still bathed in sunshine, the familiar signature tune to Coronation Street wafted across from a little caravan across the track and I thought about Cherie again. She loved Corrie. In fact, she had converted me to a zealous follower and we both sadly conspired to record the programme if ever we were away. I often used to lie on the settee while Corrie was on. Cherie would place a cushion on her lap and I would rest my head on it. For a full half hour she would gently run her fingers through my hair. How I missed her now.
It took five minutes for the knot inside me to ease and I was able to get my things together for the short trip to the shower block. Renewed and dressed relatively smartly, save for my disgusting squash trainers, I suddenly realised how hungry I was. I hadn't eaten since brunch in Ledbury. I had no option but to cycle to find something, as there were no shops around and the campsite had nothing to offer. Reluctantly pedalling and deliberately taking it easy along the back road to Evesham, I was surprised at the opulence displayed in the South Fork-like houses, each driveway sporting at least two very expensive cars. A mile and a half from camp, and now freewheeling down the main road to town, I saw the SPAR logo. It was an oasis in the desert to a man dying of thirst, except in my case it was desperate hunger.
By this time, opulence had given way to the characteristic shabbiness of so many council estates. The area looked rough, but I didn't bother locking up the bike in my haste to get to the food. As I quickly passed around the narrow aisles, I picked up everything I fancied. The end result was the selection you would expect from a ten year old who had been given a fiver by his granny, not the balanced and coordinated meal that would sustain a long distance cyclist. It was all thrown carelessly into a gossamer thin plastic bag by a disinterested teenage till girl. I left the shop like a hungry dog about to wolf down the dinner of the cat next door and sat on a low wall outside the SPAR shop. As I watched some dirty kids playing on a patch of spare tarmac, the dinner went down: beef pasty, followed by unspecified sandwich, followed by two mini pork pies, followed by prawn cocktail crisps and finally, a melted mint Aero chocolate bar. Easing the transition from one to the next were thirsty gulps from a two litre container of chilled milk. What a concoction.
I had a friend in university who had been brought up in Evesham by his parents who owned a market garden. I had never been before, and I knew I wouldn't have time to look around the next day; so, I decided to go and have a wander around. More importantly, I needed cash out of a machine if I wanted to have more than one or two pints of beer that night … and I definitely did.
Thankfully, it was downhill all the way and I enjoyed the ride. I took the trouble to look in some shoe shop windows. I really did need something decent to put on my feet in the evenings. It was a half- hearted look though, and once I'd found a bank and taken out cash, I pedalled through the pedestrianised part of the town and then into the park to follow the riverbank path back towards the main bridge over the river. It was a beautiful evening and I was impressed with the way the rowing club members, practising on the river, overtook me with such ease. I'd seen these boats on TV, of course, but I was nevertheless impressed with the turn of speed they could muster. Once I crossed the river bridge I started the long slog back up the hill towards the campsite. I had reset the trip meter on the bike computer and, by the time I got back to the tent, it read five and a half miles. I could have done without it. It had been a long, hot, often painful day and I knew I would be back on the road for anything between six and nine hours the next day.
Worse still, the pub was almost a mile away. I decided to walk to giving my backside a rest. As a bonus, I would also stand a better chance of getting back in one piece after a few beers. Wednesday night, in a country pub, in a rich commuter village outside Evesham, on a beautiful mid-summer's evening – the place was dead. It was just me and the barmaid. Having said that we did get chatting and, I would say we actually got quite close. After some time I told her about Cherie and she told me of some loved ones that she had 'lost' recently. There was no hint of chat-up, or any sexual connotations, but I did soak up her humanness, amplified perhaps, by my prolonged periods of solitude that day.
We were joined later by a couple of middle-aged men (what am I?). One bore a striking resemblance to Kenneth Clark, the then chancellor of the exchequer and after five pints, with the corners lopped off my inhibitions, I told him so. My eyes had not deceived me as he confirmed he had been told so many times before. He even sounded like him, but I had downed six or seven pints by then so I might have been wrong. I don't remember what we talked about, but I enjoyed the exchange of ideas and some banter before I set off at about midnight. The sky looked like the roof in a planetarium, the air was still warm and I meandered along the lane, back to the campsite. My thoughts were inexorably drawn to Cherie, so that when I reached the entrance to the site, I didn't want to go to bed. At the access lane to the campsite, I crossed to the opposite side of the road. There was no fence, just a drainage ditch separating the road from the field. I sat down with my legs dangling into the ditch and there, in the lonely quiet of the midnight hours, under the warm stars, I cried and remembered Cherie.
The Ride:
Ross on Wye to Evesham
Distance: 42 miles
Serialisation of Hill’s Ups and Downs by Tony Hill with permission. The book is published by Cambria Books and is available to buy HERE.
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