Karaoke Queen
Day 2: 13th May, to Kentisbeare 40 miles, total 65 miles.
It takes me a moment to work out where I am. I’m lying on the same side of the bed as I do at home, but the walls are a pale orange colour and every time I move there’s a rubbery squelching noise. Ah yes, we’re on holiday. I’ve not had the greatest night’s sleep, I probably got five hours in the end, but that’s OK, it’s enough. This is now day two; we are off and running, and I don’t ache too much.
As I lie in my bag this morning, I’m thrilled to hear our old friend the cuckoo. Nicky doesn’t even need to resort to the Lilo stopper removal tactic to get me up. The cuckoo, which we’ve heard on other trips, seems to lead us on; greet us when we arrive somewhere, or tell us we are going the right way. It’s enough encouragement to get me out of the tent and make tea for us both. I find my cycle shorts beside me, lie on my back, hold the shorts with two hands by the waistband, then in a throw-in sort of action take them from behind my head down to my knees. If I’ve timed the curling up correctly my feet will be in position to shoot through the stretchy leg holes, et voila! Wallace-like, my shorts will be on. I crawl out the tent and am shocked by just how cold the dew is on my bare toes, but my cup overfloweth when I see that a slug has spent a peaceful night in Nicky’s teacup. Perfect first pic of the day for the family chat. Edith looks serene against the fence, pointed towards the gate, ready for action. Thankfully we remembered that the yellow ‘shower caps’ we put on over our cycle helmets on rainy days, also double as overnight saddle covers. So, no dewy bum this morning. Things are already going well!
My cup overfloweth!
Not a bad pack up, considering it’s the first of the trip. We try to remember where everything goes. Are sleeping bags in the big or little panniers? Whichever it is, the Lilos go in the other ones. The Big Agneses are wrestled in amongst the flip flops, waterproofs, and Hotel Vaude. Nothing is left on the ground, a good sign, everything must be packed.
I recycle last night’s wine and beer bottles, then clip on the panniers, while Nicky holds Edith upright. We wish Phil a good day and say we’ll see him later; he is heading for the same site as us tonight. We wave to the couple headed for Bude; they are avoiding putting bums on saddles for as long as possible. The Starting Ritual is formally commenced at 9.28am, heading 8 miles to Bridgwater, on National Cycle Route (NCR) 3
Bridgwater, Somerset, is my hometown, it’s where my Thorn tribe are based, so you can imagine how pleased I was to see Sarah from Thorn bikes coming towards us along the canal towpath. Thankfully the failing eyesight of the Wrinklies didn’t miss the Thorn label on her bike, and they had a nice chat about our trip. Sarah was pleased to see me and spoke encouragingly to the Wrinklies about the route. Promises of postcards from Spain were made, but they’ll probably forget. I wish Sarah had reminded them that I like a glug of oil as much as he likes a glug of vin rouge.
Bridgwater is a little less than an hour into the ride today, but the call of a Costa is even louder than that of this morning’s cuckoo, so I haul on the anchors as we spot its cheery sign. We remember just in time that we need lots of calories cycling like this and so quickly add some guilt free cakes to the order. I’m very pleased with the number of points this adds to my Costa App.
It’s a nice moment. The three of us are on our way, we’ve got a few miles under our belts, we’re feeling successful, and we’ve got cake. No one knows us here, or where we are heading. We can see Edith through the glass window, propped up against a wall; she looks epic with her coordinated panniers, drinks bottles, and solar panels. We are both Cheshire Cat happy, is this a glimpse of what independence feels like? We’ve been anticipating this for months and so far, it’s not disappointing us.
We leave Costa powered by caffeine, cake, and a North Easterly wind, that shoves us nicely along the Bridgwater to Taunton canal path.
Pompous herons stand with their beaks in the air as we rumble along the stony towpath. It’s almost as if they are judging the likelihood of us completing the trip. I reckon they think it’s 50:50. We don’t feel judged at all by our friend Brian’s handsome Ready Mix Concrete plant, on the outskirts of Taunton. We stop to take a photo for him, then post it to our pub quiz team chat, just to let him know we are thinking of him. Reaching Taunton town centre, we pull into Morrisons for more calories in the form of a nice little Meal Deal each. We speak to an older couple who want to know what we are up to; they are excited for us and suggest that for our next adventure we should try the West of Ireland. Nicky is quite keen; I’m not convinced. Will the Guinness opportunities outweigh the precipitation certainties?
The day is still going well; we’ve got 20 miles done and neither of us has any new aches and pains. Without any extra effort we glide past some young lads out cycling on their bikes, “Wow! cool bike,” one of them says.
“Thanks,” we shout in stereo. We wave back, feeling even better about ourselves.
A mile after this kind gesture of affirmation the back tyre starts feeling a bit squirmy, a sure sign that we’ve got a puncture. We get off and check. It feels a bit soft, so we pump it up and go on. 200yds later, it feels the same again. Bum. Unload all panniers, turn bike upside down, remove back wheel, attack it with tyre levers, and look for thorns etc.
The young guys we passed earlier, now come past us and our pile of luggage at the side of the road. We don’t look quite so cool now. They stop and ask if we are OK. Nice lads.
No thorns or signs of punctures on the outside of the inner tube. The air-on-eyeball test shows that the hole is strangely on the inner, spoke side of the tube. The rim tape running around the aluminium wheel and protecting the inner tube from the spokes has a twist in it. Can that cause a puncture? We need more rim tape, but we don’t have any, I stick on a piece of electrical tape for now. Mr Google helps us find a cycle shop in Wellington, a few miles further on. We phone ahead, thankfully they have just what we need. We put on a new innertube and continue gingerly on our way.
What other spares should we have brought with us? I thought I had everything Edith might need. I think I’ve just understood what Donald Rumsfeld was on about with his, “Unknown unknowns.”
Not sure what he is on about but, if he’d done more thinking about spares and less hunting Doritos, we might be better prepared. Anyway, I’m glad they worked out what was going on. That rubbing had been annoying me for a few miles. It just goes to show that my undercarriage is as susceptible to chafing as their own!
Half an hour later the nice man in the bike shop sells us some new rim tape and confirms that if it becomes twisted it can cause punctures. Well, I never.
To celebrate we hit the Co-Op in Wellington High Street for our evening supplies. Quiche, couscous, chocolate, crisps, and 3 single serve bottles of wine to ensure I remain perfectly hydrated. Back in the saddle we head off on today’s last 10-mile section to Kentisbeare, near Cullompton.
At the 33 miles mark I surprise Nicky by yanking on the brakes when I spot a queue waiting for ice creams. Mother and daughter entrepreneurs have a salivating row of day trippers lining up outside their converted horsebox, all desperate to get their hands on an artisan cone. No cash? no problem, the 9-year-old daughter is a whizz with their card machine. We expectantly wait our turn, then enjoy our ice creams, sitting on a bridge; legs dangling over the river Culm below. It’s a good place for a break as the final few miles to the campsite are uphill. A few more speedily absorbed calories can only help.
The final climb is a bit of a grind, but satisfyingly we make it up without pushing. We roll up at Postwood Gardens campsite around 4.30pm. The gates are locked, no one is around. We unload Edith and get her through a kissing gate by pulling her up on to her back wheel and wobbling her through like a clown’s unicycle. Cycling up the track we see a couple of tents that look like their owners may have popped out for the day, but otherwise the place is deserted. Thankfully the shower/loo block is open, so we find somewhere we like and pitch the tent.
Phil rocks up half an hour later, looking knackered; he’s had a hard day. He tells us that he was running out of steam and in desperation tried one of those energy gels at the bottom of the final hill; he was staggered by the boost it gave him. We make a mental note to get a few for emergencies. There won’t always be an ice cream van around.
The showers aren’t bad at all, nice and warm and no push-for-water button. It always feels much more enjoyable to have a shower without pressing a button every 30 seconds. Otherwise, it feels like the swimming baths of my youth. Cycling clothes are pegged out on a wire fence to air, and then I soak up the sun on my Lilo while Nicky reads in her Big Agnes. Re-charging our ageing bodies each day by lolling around feels vital to the success of our mission and is therefore as deliciously guilt free as cake.
After supper I put new rim tape on the back wheel, fix the puncture in the old inner tube, then roll it up and pack it at the bottom of my handlebar pannier.
Phil turns out to be a fascinating man. He has a beautiful custom bike which he calls DonMar, named after the magic act that his parents Don and Margaret performed together.
I’m looking forward to having a gossip with DonMar later, and finding out how she gets on with Phil. DonMar seems very well looked after, I’m hoping The Wrinklies pick up some tips in tandem TLC.
Phil, now fully recovered from his day, tells us stories about his life on cruise ships, and in the Police. He also tells how he had broken 37 bones when a learner driver ploughed over him and his bike. This trip is his first tentative foray back into cycling, after technically dying at the crash scene with a heart attack. He tells us about his love of cycling and his hatred of boarding school.
While we chat a black Range Rover returns with a couple in it. There’s no arguing, but things seem tense. She pours herself a drink, (as an ex-pub owner it looks like a rum and coke to me) then sits in the sun before he drives off again. Soon she is serenading us all with Motown classics, and she can sing too! Her admirable pipes are rivalling the impressive stereo that is accompanying her.
The Range Rover and her partner come back, and he gets the BBQ going without much being said; tension is still evident and the guy looks our way, obviously embarrassed. Phil shows his skills with the public and wanders over to chat to him. He tells him we really don’t mind the singing. The chap is relieved but hoping that after having something to eat his friend will fall asleep. Meanwhile her recital has moved into the Range Rover which has an even better sound system, enabling her inner Aretha to fully let rip. As predicted half an hour later all is quiet again.
We take a little stroll to see what the start of tomorrow’s route looks like. A straight, gentle downhill along a quiet road with deciduous woods either side, a lovely way to kick-off the day. We chat about our day and are amazed about how much has happened along the way. Could it be that part of becoming independent again is making memories that only we can share? Life back home seems surprisingly distant already.
When we get back to our tent, Phil is writing his blog. We say good night to him on our way back from brushing our teeth, and zip ourselves into the tent. I turn on the two little spherical torches that hang from a string down the middle of the tent; they look just like eyeballs and are a great addition to our camping kit. They give off a surprising amount of light while using hardly any power.
I dig out the diary, and the stubby pencil that lies inside, to scribble down today’s story. While writing, I sip a cold cup of tea, that I’ve wedged into a shoe to avoid a flood, and wolf down the remains of tonight’s bar of Tony’s Chocolonely handily just within reach. Lying here I feel very fortunate: chocs, tea, comfy Lilo, and no work for 6 weeks. A simpler existence, with our responsibilities evaporating, feels great right now.
Nicky is already asleep and purring as I finish the diary and put the elastic strap around the notebook. I read my Kindle for a bit and then turn off the eyeballs. Another happy day tomorrow - I hope.
