Exeter to Taunton to Bath to Nupend

July 25, 2010 (continued)

Re-reading my post from this morning, I think that I may have actually fast-forwarded through the stages of mourning. To be perfectly honest, I was still pretty pissed and just a little bit homicidal when we left Globe Backpacker at 8:30 AM this morning.

The good news is that last night (this morning) was the worst part of the day. Apparently, at 8:30 AM on Sunday morning, there isn't a soul awake in all of Exeter, and we pedaled through the deserted city streets with ease. Headed for Tivorton, we followed a river through a low-lying valley. That's right. It was flat. FLAT. FLAAAAAAT... (Isn't that such a pretty word?) And, even though it was flat, it was also pretty, and the next 15 miles slid under our tires quickly, easily, palatably. Through Tivorton, we headed for Brampton. It became clear that other cyclists liked this stretch of road as much as we did, and we saw more than a dozen zipping by on their fancy bicycles.

At 20 miles, we stopped to snack on a little bit of bread, and we couldn't believe how far we had come in just an hour and a half. Feeling optimistic, we cycled on through Brampton, up a few short hills, and into Wiveliscombe at 30 miles. Surrounded by beautiful, gently undulating English countryside (and roads that somehow found a level course), our spirits were increasingly high. Joshua said he like England, and I said summer in England, with its blue skies, green meadows, and bucolic livestock, is bliss. We bought local cheese, bread, and berries for lunch, and then sat in a little landscaped courtyard overlooking the tiny main street of Wiveliscombe. After a desert of chocolate covered flapjacks (our new English favorite), we hopped back on our bikes and steered towards Taunton.

Although the roads into and through Taunton were a bit more busy, they ran generally downhill, and within two hours, we were taking in Taunton's main shopping district. Spying a scarf that I had fancied in another Debenham's window display, I made Joshua stop so we could make a detour through the English department store. Unfortunately, while the scarf had appeared in more than one window display in more than one store, the building did not carry said scarf. This was doubly frustrating, because upon further investigation, the scarf would have cost 15 pounds, the max price Joshua and I had agreed upon prior to the detour. Sadly, the white lacy scarf with tassels eludes me... Don't worry, I'm sure I shall find another.

From Debenhams, Joshua and I went in search of supplies for dinner and found it at another Marks and Spencers. With a bag of stir fry and some more chocolate covered flapjacks strapped to our back pannier, we made our way to the Cedar Mill Farm campsite. Luckily, there was excellent signage, and we found the little farm with ease. Inside the gates, there were a number of old steam cars and huge vats of fermenting cider. A peacock strut across the driveway, shedding azure-eyelid feathers, and the little farmhouse sat beside a field of apple trees.

At reception, no one was home, so we explored the complex and found the section where a couple of other tents had parked. Finding our own little piece of flat ground, we cleared away little green apples and set up camp. For the next couple of hours, I typed while Joshua dozed, and when the air began to cool, Joshua cooked up dinner. Intermittently, our camp-neighbor, a batty Lancashire man with a very thick accent would come over, offer us pilfered cider, and tell us little anecdotes. He always ended his garbled sentences in the phrase, "d'ya know what I mean?" And Joshua and I had no recourse other than to nod our heads, and say yes, we knew what he meant (even though we hadn't the faintest idea, accent or no.).

After dinner, we made a couple more efforts to find the site manager at reception, but the owners were gone. Tired from two days of biking and no sleeping, we went to bed at 8:30 PM.

June 26, 2010

At 7:30 AM, roosters woke us up. We broke down camp, ate breakfast, and rolled out of Cedar Mill Farms within an hour. Just as we were pedaling down the road, the owner of the farm came calling after us, and we paid our 4 pounds to a crotchety man who was convinced that we were trying to jilt him (even while we were paying). Feeling a bit cowed by his bit of stern talking, we pedaled somberly out of town.

After a mile or so, we found a small off-road that Lonely Planet recommended, and we proceeded to take a small detour off the busier roads. It ended up being a fantastic choice. The back roads took us through small little villages and along swift little dips over rivers and around fields. To our left and right, we passed little stone cottages and sweet hobby farms. Blackberries are in full season, so whenever we stopped, I picked a few and ate them.

Just past Athelney, we spotted Burrow Mump, an old tower perched high on a hill (the only high hill for miles). Pulling into the parking lot at its base, we propped up the bikes and hiked up to the top for stunning views picture framed by the old architecture. Pleased with our little pit stop, we trundled on towards Glastonbury. While the roads became increasingly busier, the terrain remained level, and we reached our 25 mile mark at Glastonbury handily. Grabbing some pastries from a local baker, we pedaled up a steep slope past the old Abbey and up to the Tor. Once again, we propped up our bikes and made the steep hike to the top for even better views of our trip to come.

Below us, Glastonbury spread out over a few knolls, and I remarked to Joshua how much I had liked the little town. Glastonbury is the site of England's Woodstock, and judging by the shops in the town center, it has yet to move past the 70s. Dharma, Chakra, Buddha, and Wicca all converge on its quirky main street, and while I was searching for pastries, I had fun looking through the windows of all the New Agey, Hippy Dippy shops. Even on our road up to the Tor, there were plenty of psychedelic murals, suggesting that free love, peace, and a little bit of acid are still alive and well in the streets of Glastonbury.

Already feeling a little bit tired, Joshua warned me that we had about 30 to 35 miles to go to make it to Bath. Feeling fairly assured by our view from the Tor that there was nothing but flat land around us, I said, "let's do it."

I could beleaguer you with the ways that it sucked, but I'll just tell you now - in a nutshell - it sucked. If it's possible to go 30 miles uphill, then we did it. If it's possible to go 30 miles up hill next to traffic speeding by at 60 miles an hour, then we did it. If it's possible that Joshua had a minor panic attack and I almost blew out my knee in the absolute lowest gear, then we did it. At mile 30, Joshua looked back at me, sweaty and pissy, and said, "Bath better fucking be worth it."

At the crest of the last hill, we saw Bath spill out over the valley before us. For the next two miles, we coasted downhill past golden stone buildings. At one junction, we stopped for a break and to find food for dinner. Joshua bought pork pot pies and tortellini for dinner, and when he returned, we decided we were to weary to really investigate Bath. We wanted our campsite. We wanted food. We wanted Advil, and we wanted bed.

Heading out of Bath, we saw a sign that pointed towards the campsite, saying that we had a mile to go. Too bad they're a bunch of no-good liars, and it was actually 3 miles to go, and in those 3 miles there was not one, but two massive hills at 16 percent grade.

When we got to the Newton Mill campsite, it ended up being 10 pounds each just to pitch our tent in a little field surrounded by a bunch of Germans. I don't mean to sound bitter, but really. Poor signage and worse prices? Near our camp, we ran into another couple who had taken the ferry from Holland and biked along toe-paths and canals to Bath. They seemed pretty chipper, and when we mentioned all the hills, they looked confused. Toe-paths it is.

We set up our tent with lightening speed, showered, dressed, and cooked dinner like it was our job, and for our meal's entertainment, we watched 14 German teenagers figure out how to put up 7 tents. It was actually hilarious, and Joshua and I made bets to see who would erect theirs first. For a while, the girls seemed to be winning, but when I looked down at my bowl to scoop another few tortellini into my mouth, Joshua said, "uh oh. She's going in!" That's right, the German girls entered the still partially deflated tent and tried to set it up FROM THE INSIDE. Laughing at the Germans made me feel much better, and for the rest of the evening, I basked in my camping know-how and in my book, Bel Canto.

July 27, 2010

This morning we woke up late to the Germans shouting. I'm not sure what they were saying, but judging by the boy-girl interactions, I'm pretty sure it was a mating call.

We broke camp like pros (just to show 'em how its done), and then we pedaled out, waving goodbye to the eternally smiley couple from Holland. Joshua thought he figured out a short cut into Bath, and we took it. Yup. Apparently, we were like, half a mile from the city center the whole time. Grrr.

Every one's told us that Bath is the Shit, and after our nightmare bike ride yesterday, we were certainly hoping that this would be the truth. It is. Bath looks like a classy English city that's been dipped in honey and then dappled with the most talented street performers known to man. I'm not kidding you: these women were singing OPERA. They were singing ARIAS for change! Men were playing classical music on their violins, and the streets sounded like an orchestra. I may have been dreaming, but I think Bath and Heaven have a lot in common.

It's ok that the Bath Tourist Information Center is a bunch of hogwash, because we found WH Smith, the bookstore, and bought our own map (complete with topographical notations). We headed out of town, but before we really got cruising, we stopped to see the famous Circus and Royal Crescent, two disc-shaped rows with more golden-honey buildings.

Outside of Bath, we made an epic climb, and I was not a happy camper, thinking that this was a sore harbinger of things to come. But when I looked for the next plunging downhill and its subsequent tortuous incline, I found nothing but flat road, high on ridge overlooking the Cotswolds.

It's been pretty much easy riding all day, and from Bath, we toured through more honey-colored villages. One of my favorites was Shipton Moyne, with its classic pub and beautiful old Manors and cottages surrounding. I think I could live there, buy a few sheep, write, and be very happy. In Tetbury, we bought some Onion Bhajis, Couscous, and Fruit, and for the last 15 miles, we coasted downhill into Stroud, and then onto the National Cycle Path 45 where there were no cars, no hills, and sweet glimpses of the canals.

Tonight, we're staying in a tiny village called Nupend, complete with thatched roofs and old churches with beautiful stain glass windows. Our tent site was 5 pounds, but it doesn't have any bathrooms. For fine dining, we headed back to a interstate pit stop to enjoy cheesy chips, a biff, and some free wi-fi.

Hoping all is well with you, my reader, and I've also been meaning to thank everyone for their comments. I write for them, and every time I get a new one, I nudge Joshua in the middle of his reading and tell him I have fans! He is very patient, and so are you, for wading through all of my hastily written typos. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings, just so I can share it all with you.