2-6 September, 2019.
Fishguard, Wales to Poole, England, Straight Up, Straight Down, Eventually Back to the Sea
276.4 miles with 18,557 feet of ascent, equivalent (plus a bit) to ascending to Mount Everest base camp from sea level.
Fishguard, Wales to Poole, England, Straight Up, Straight Down, Eventually Back to the Sea
276.4 miles with 18,557 feet of ascent, equivalent (plus a bit) to ascending to Mount Everest base camp from sea level.
Top image: I rode 276.4 miles through Wales and England, along the way I climbed 18,557 feet, about 23rds of the way up Mt Everest from sea level.
From the perspective of the dock, as I was exiting the massive ferry that carried me across the ocean between Rosslare, Ireland and Fishguard, Wales, I could see that the land rose quickly from the shore and then rolled into the distance, a network of hills and hidden valleys where creeks ran cold all year and trees grew tall amidst myriad village scenes. Fishguard central itself is a few kilometers from the ferry dock and most of the way up a steep climb. By chance, I took the scenic route to the village, through a small park where I encountered a few well behaved dogs and their owners and plenty of blackberries. It's fruit season in the northern hemisphere including Ireland and Wales where black, plump, sweet blackberries are seemingly everywhere. By now, I've stopped many times to take advantage of the anti-oxidant qualities of this fruit, a feature of all berries, and to just enjoy nature's marvelous flavors.
I located a phone shop, the only one apparently, in Fishguard but it was closed all day, an unlucky conclusion that I transformed into something much more smile worthy by visiting a bakery across the street where I picked up their last meat pie, baked this morning, for just 1 quid which the customers behind me in line were not thrilled to witness. A meat pie fits perfectly in a jersey pocket and is an excellent food choice for a bike rider that is constantly burning both fats and carbohydrates.
The countryside was not far from the bakery, within a kilometer or 2/3rds of a mile. Whilst crossing that threshold, I rolled into a familiar agricultural scene that went to the horizon on all sides of hills made smooth, domes rather than peaks, by the patient forces of erosion, wind, rain, and ice, over millennia. Despite familiarity, after, for example, transecting Ireland from north to south and roughly down the middle, the landscape was no less beautiful than any other day on the tour. And as before, since arriving to Duncansby Head and riding west less than two weeks ago, I was inspired to explore, to ride on into the hill country of Wales.
The first hill climb out of Fishguard central came quickly; at the top the view was spectacular. I searched for a way off the road and found an unlocked gate with no sheep nearby. I made my way through, politely closed it behind me, and rolled down the tractor track about 100 feet to an enviable panorama of land and water including the ferry that had taken me across St George's Channel between Ireland and Wales. A pee and a meat pie concluded my pause and soon I was on my way again through the Welsh countryside.
I'd been warned by travelers and was also made aware through route building using RideWithGPS (dot com) that the Welsh hills were not very high but they were nonetheless very steep on both sides. This reality inevitably arrived with deep penetration into my mind and legs, a gradient that left me plenty of time, on each climb, often 15-18%, to think about how this would unfold by the end of this day and at least the next. The climbs were not long, but certainly not short either, somewhere in the middle. A half-mile was not unusual; a few were a mile plus a half, roughly. A section of each climb often exceeded a 20% grade, perhaps as much as 25%, just shy of "a wall". At times, I struggled to keep the front wheel on the ground and grind my way up the climb whilst being tempted by bountiful blackberries reaching out towards passersby from both sides of the road.
At the bottom of each descent, a scene out of the Lord of the Rings awaited and I anticipated each one with curiosity despite the next wall awaiting me on the other side, inevitably, a price for each treasure that I was, more or less, depending on the moment, happy to pay: often not more than a few houses, each typically associated with many more farm outbuildings, barns, etc, and all built form stone and concrete, an invention during Roman times, by hands and voices long ago forgotten, from centuries when carts were the state-of-the-art of travel versus my Niner Bikes RLT 9 Steel bicycle, a tour-de-force adventure bike. Forests crowded around the homes and often a small creek meandered, in deep shadow, below their branches. Filling in the scene around the human residences and adjacent farm infrastructure, tractors and their tracks, fence lines of barbed wire and wooden posts marched outward onto the slopes in all directions enclosing sheep that stared across the wire or paid me no attention as I rode past. Grass hay fields dominated, most of these brown stumps, just sharp stubble by now as they were recently cut; massive, round, hay bales lay where they were dropped. Field and bale often created a wonderful symmetry of geometry and matter. On the highest hills, heather, purple in flower, covered the barrens. These hills reminded me of the highlands of Scotland of which they no doubt shared many features other than latitude. Through this picture book landscape I patiently made my way from Fishguard heading east.
On my second day of the tour in Wales, Carmarthen to Newport, I needed water and found a front-door that was open in a small village. A family happily filled my bottles and then asked questions. Not far from their oasis from humanity's more densely populated areas, I rode into Brecon Beacon National Park. According to a friend, Paul Hansen, this is a favorite location for the Wales Special Forces for conducting training exercises. Brecon Beacon is in the clouds, quite literally at times, as it was when I passed through. The land is covered in grass, likely a manipulation of a former heather-dominated matrix. With grass, no surprise, sheep abound up here. On the highest slopes, sheep roam free including over the road, a rough, single-track that no doubt experiences much harsh weather.
Regarding single-track, from Duncansby Head, I'd experienced a full spectrum, my impression anyway, of surfaces including subtle types that although they appeared smooth ultimately produced enough friction to slow my progress. I've listened to interviews with professional road racers that included comments about road surfaces in the UK. Compared to, e.g., Switzerland, opinions about UK surfaces were never complimentary whilst the latter were celebrated. There is a lot more to the "surface" of a road than pot holes of various sizes and frequency. The material forming the surface, even if unbroken, is the source of a tremendous variety, a spectrum of its own, that will speed you up or slow you down.
A chance encounter with Brecon Beacon was a privilege that I've already allocated to my cherished memory bank. I stopped for photos, including another gate trick and this time over a barbed wire fence as well. The scene suggested I might capture an image worth sharing but in hindsight there may not have been anything there, but perhaps an ellusive and judicial crop, my favorite way to edit an image, will eventually materialize and prove me wrong.
My intention was to ride east to Usk and then turn south to Newport, freelancing my way without a GPS route which I normally follow. Instead, I took the advice of a local and turned south much sooner, close to Llanfoist where I picked up an extensive canal-side bicycle and foot trail that led me most of the way to Newport. At Sebastopol, by now in the thick of urbania, I chose to ride east for a few miles before turning south and riding into Caerleon, a Newport burb that was frequented by the Romans as their remains, including baths, reveal to modern visitors. I found a local then a pub with WiFi and soon was in touch with my hosts for the next two nights, Ian Bright, his wife Caroline, and their two children, Nia and George.
I was due for a day off, since arriving to Denver International Airport following a season of training and racing that encompassed 8,000 miles and a sleepless night, I'd taken only one rest day. I met Ian and his family on the ferry boat from Lochboisdale, South Uist, Outer Hebrides to Mallaig, a small town that also services travelers wishing to visit the Isle of Skye by ferry, another in the CalMac Ferries fleet of which there are many. We were barely out of port when I chanced into Ian and we subsequently spent the remainder of the crossing, a few hours, chatting.
Their energy was contagious, and their sincerity too, was not in short supply. I enjoyed Ian's wisdom and Caroline's wit. In short, I felt like I'd known both of them for years and so it was easy to accept their invitation to stop in for a visit on my way through Wales. Of course, I had no idea how well my arrival to Newport would align with my overall goal to reach Istanbul. However, the distance from Fishguard, about 200 miles, roughly two days of cycling, proved to be about right for a visit which I extended to two nights with a full rest day in the middle which I spent touring the town and the recreational opportunities, including two saunas, thanks to Ian's kindness.
On my third day of touring by bicycle through Wales I crossed the impressive and intimidating Severn Bridge. Yertle the Turtle would have been impressed by the view from the summit, far above the Severn River, like Yertle I was the king, for a moment anyway, of all I could see and that was an impressive swath of both Wales and adjacent England. A few hours later, Welsh Hills fading into memory, by now on flattish farmland, I descended towards Poole, England, the coast, and a ferry terminal. Gradually the walls closed in as man's urban passions filled the space around my body and bike. The sounds of birds and the smells of wildflowers dissolved into the chaos of modern man's priorities.
The night before I booked an Airbnb not far from the ferry, closing the last few miles to Elaine's doorstep was a challenge including a few cul-de-sacs; the last few miles always are when I'm navigating through an urban landscape. But the effort was worth every iota of dissolved patience, Elaine was a gem of a host and after an intro I was set free in the house which I had all to myself. Not bad for about 32$. My thought at this juncture in the tour was that if I could sleep in a bed for under 40$ then I would likely leave the bivy sack in my pannier, where it would always be for emergencies, e.g., if I become chilled and wet on an overly ambitious day in the Alps. In the meantime, in Poole I slept well, ate well too, woke with plenty of time, and easily navigated through light early morning traffic the last 5k to the ferry terminal and dock. About an hour later, I was on my way to Cherbourg, a coastal town in Brittany, France, the home of my Great Grandfather, Henri before he migrated to Canada, and subsequently, Maine. This would be my first visit to Brittany and my third to France.
As I sit tap, tap, tapping away at my keyboard the calendar has advanced a few days since I departed Poole and arrived, about 4 hours later, to Cherbourg. Since arriving to the land of my ancestors, I took some time to visit Utah and Omaha Beaches from the famous WWII D-day invasions, along the Normandy coast. From Omaha Beach I descended into the heart of France and that's where I'm presently residing, in a small village on the River Loire a few miles upstream from Orleans. I'll share more details about my tour through France soon. Please check back in a couple of days.
I located a phone shop, the only one apparently, in Fishguard but it was closed all day, an unlucky conclusion that I transformed into something much more smile worthy by visiting a bakery across the street where I picked up their last meat pie, baked this morning, for just 1 quid which the customers behind me in line were not thrilled to witness. A meat pie fits perfectly in a jersey pocket and is an excellent food choice for a bike rider that is constantly burning both fats and carbohydrates.
The countryside was not far from the bakery, within a kilometer or 2/3rds of a mile. Whilst crossing that threshold, I rolled into a familiar agricultural scene that went to the horizon on all sides of hills made smooth, domes rather than peaks, by the patient forces of erosion, wind, rain, and ice, over millennia. Despite familiarity, after, for example, transecting Ireland from north to south and roughly down the middle, the landscape was no less beautiful than any other day on the tour. And as before, since arriving to Duncansby Head and riding west less than two weeks ago, I was inspired to explore, to ride on into the hill country of Wales.
The first hill climb out of Fishguard central came quickly; at the top the view was spectacular. I searched for a way off the road and found an unlocked gate with no sheep nearby. I made my way through, politely closed it behind me, and rolled down the tractor track about 100 feet to an enviable panorama of land and water including the ferry that had taken me across St George's Channel between Ireland and Wales. A pee and a meat pie concluded my pause and soon I was on my way again through the Welsh countryside.
I'd been warned by travelers and was also made aware through route building using RideWithGPS (dot com) that the Welsh hills were not very high but they were nonetheless very steep on both sides. This reality inevitably arrived with deep penetration into my mind and legs, a gradient that left me plenty of time, on each climb, often 15-18%, to think about how this would unfold by the end of this day and at least the next. The climbs were not long, but certainly not short either, somewhere in the middle. A half-mile was not unusual; a few were a mile plus a half, roughly. A section of each climb often exceeded a 20% grade, perhaps as much as 25%, just shy of "a wall". At times, I struggled to keep the front wheel on the ground and grind my way up the climb whilst being tempted by bountiful blackberries reaching out towards passersby from both sides of the road.
At the bottom of each descent, a scene out of the Lord of the Rings awaited and I anticipated each one with curiosity despite the next wall awaiting me on the other side, inevitably, a price for each treasure that I was, more or less, depending on the moment, happy to pay: often not more than a few houses, each typically associated with many more farm outbuildings, barns, etc, and all built form stone and concrete, an invention during Roman times, by hands and voices long ago forgotten, from centuries when carts were the state-of-the-art of travel versus my Niner Bikes RLT 9 Steel bicycle, a tour-de-force adventure bike. Forests crowded around the homes and often a small creek meandered, in deep shadow, below their branches. Filling in the scene around the human residences and adjacent farm infrastructure, tractors and their tracks, fence lines of barbed wire and wooden posts marched outward onto the slopes in all directions enclosing sheep that stared across the wire or paid me no attention as I rode past. Grass hay fields dominated, most of these brown stumps, just sharp stubble by now as they were recently cut; massive, round, hay bales lay where they were dropped. Field and bale often created a wonderful symmetry of geometry and matter. On the highest hills, heather, purple in flower, covered the barrens. These hills reminded me of the highlands of Scotland of which they no doubt shared many features other than latitude. Through this picture book landscape I patiently made my way from Fishguard heading east.
On my second day of the tour in Wales, Carmarthen to Newport, I needed water and found a front-door that was open in a small village. A family happily filled my bottles and then asked questions. Not far from their oasis from humanity's more densely populated areas, I rode into Brecon Beacon National Park. According to a friend, Paul Hansen, this is a favorite location for the Wales Special Forces for conducting training exercises. Brecon Beacon is in the clouds, quite literally at times, as it was when I passed through. The land is covered in grass, likely a manipulation of a former heather-dominated matrix. With grass, no surprise, sheep abound up here. On the highest slopes, sheep roam free including over the road, a rough, single-track that no doubt experiences much harsh weather.
Regarding single-track, from Duncansby Head, I'd experienced a full spectrum, my impression anyway, of surfaces including subtle types that although they appeared smooth ultimately produced enough friction to slow my progress. I've listened to interviews with professional road racers that included comments about road surfaces in the UK. Compared to, e.g., Switzerland, opinions about UK surfaces were never complimentary whilst the latter were celebrated. There is a lot more to the "surface" of a road than pot holes of various sizes and frequency. The material forming the surface, even if unbroken, is the source of a tremendous variety, a spectrum of its own, that will speed you up or slow you down.
A chance encounter with Brecon Beacon was a privilege that I've already allocated to my cherished memory bank. I stopped for photos, including another gate trick and this time over a barbed wire fence as well. The scene suggested I might capture an image worth sharing but in hindsight there may not have been anything there, but perhaps an ellusive and judicial crop, my favorite way to edit an image, will eventually materialize and prove me wrong.
My intention was to ride east to Usk and then turn south to Newport, freelancing my way without a GPS route which I normally follow. Instead, I took the advice of a local and turned south much sooner, close to Llanfoist where I picked up an extensive canal-side bicycle and foot trail that led me most of the way to Newport. At Sebastopol, by now in the thick of urbania, I chose to ride east for a few miles before turning south and riding into Caerleon, a Newport burb that was frequented by the Romans as their remains, including baths, reveal to modern visitors. I found a local then a pub with WiFi and soon was in touch with my hosts for the next two nights, Ian Bright, his wife Caroline, and their two children, Nia and George.
I was due for a day off, since arriving to Denver International Airport following a season of training and racing that encompassed 8,000 miles and a sleepless night, I'd taken only one rest day. I met Ian and his family on the ferry boat from Lochboisdale, South Uist, Outer Hebrides to Mallaig, a small town that also services travelers wishing to visit the Isle of Skye by ferry, another in the CalMac Ferries fleet of which there are many. We were barely out of port when I chanced into Ian and we subsequently spent the remainder of the crossing, a few hours, chatting.
Their energy was contagious, and their sincerity too, was not in short supply. I enjoyed Ian's wisdom and Caroline's wit. In short, I felt like I'd known both of them for years and so it was easy to accept their invitation to stop in for a visit on my way through Wales. Of course, I had no idea how well my arrival to Newport would align with my overall goal to reach Istanbul. However, the distance from Fishguard, about 200 miles, roughly two days of cycling, proved to be about right for a visit which I extended to two nights with a full rest day in the middle which I spent touring the town and the recreational opportunities, including two saunas, thanks to Ian's kindness.
On my third day of touring by bicycle through Wales I crossed the impressive and intimidating Severn Bridge. Yertle the Turtle would have been impressed by the view from the summit, far above the Severn River, like Yertle I was the king, for a moment anyway, of all I could see and that was an impressive swath of both Wales and adjacent England. A few hours later, Welsh Hills fading into memory, by now on flattish farmland, I descended towards Poole, England, the coast, and a ferry terminal. Gradually the walls closed in as man's urban passions filled the space around my body and bike. The sounds of birds and the smells of wildflowers dissolved into the chaos of modern man's priorities.
The night before I booked an Airbnb not far from the ferry, closing the last few miles to Elaine's doorstep was a challenge including a few cul-de-sacs; the last few miles always are when I'm navigating through an urban landscape. But the effort was worth every iota of dissolved patience, Elaine was a gem of a host and after an intro I was set free in the house which I had all to myself. Not bad for about 32$. My thought at this juncture in the tour was that if I could sleep in a bed for under 40$ then I would likely leave the bivy sack in my pannier, where it would always be for emergencies, e.g., if I become chilled and wet on an overly ambitious day in the Alps. In the meantime, in Poole I slept well, ate well too, woke with plenty of time, and easily navigated through light early morning traffic the last 5k to the ferry terminal and dock. About an hour later, I was on my way to Cherbourg, a coastal town in Brittany, France, the home of my Great Grandfather, Henri before he migrated to Canada, and subsequently, Maine. This would be my first visit to Brittany and my third to France.
As I sit tap, tap, tapping away at my keyboard the calendar has advanced a few days since I departed Poole and arrived, about 4 hours later, to Cherbourg. Since arriving to the land of my ancestors, I took some time to visit Utah and Omaha Beaches from the famous WWII D-day invasions, along the Normandy coast. From Omaha Beach I descended into the heart of France and that's where I'm presently residing, in a small village on the River Loire a few miles upstream from Orleans. I'll share more details about my tour through France soon. Please check back in a couple of days.
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