Cardinal Spins 13: SSW – Day 4

Sometimes you have to be prepared to change your plans on the fly. I don’t mind doing this where it make sense. I’m usually very relaxed about doing things in the moment and I tend not to be too planned ahead. In the game of long distance adventure cycling, a detailed plan generally acts only to constrain, and doesn’t allow for the whims of the weather, or the other factors that can significantly alter how a day unfolds. Today, I had to contend with the kind of rain that you simply don’t want to be in, and then a rare puncture, which together meant that the day I had set out to complete would no longer work. I had a sense of that in the early afternoon, with plenty of time to rethink things. And so, for the second time this year, I made a late cancellation (at no cost) and rejigged things to shorten my day. It helped, both times, that the intended end point (or pint?) could still easily be reached the following morning in better weather, making it an all round more enjoyable and less pressured experience. But I wasn’t to know that when I set out from my friends Matt and Hazel’s house at 8.45am, on the wrong side of Bath.

A combination of car and train got me back into Bristol on a bright, promising morning that still held a chill in the air as I reached the trendy Floating Harbour waterfront just after 10am. A quick coffee and an amazing cinnamon bun later and I was ready to thread my way out thought the southern suburbs. I don’t know my way around here at all, so it was a bit hit and miss, but I found a way. The first part of the city, Bedminster, was a very interesting and eclectic mixture of shops and other businesses, and seemed to specialise in large scale murals on buildings. It made everywhere really colourful, in a cheerful and uplifting way. I enjoyed that part best, but it was all OK. I passed Bristol City’s Ashton Gate Football Stadium and then began a long, slow climb out towards the rolling, green countryside.

The more mundane suburbs ran out at the surprisingly steep and demanding climb up onto Dundry Hill (from where I believe I have an ancestor on my dad’s side called Cousin Phil). From there onwards it was undulating country, including a section along the shore of the large Chew Reservoir. I was aiming for the top of Cheddar Gorge, and I found it, too; but not without another bout of really challenging hill climbing, this time on a minuscule lane that I was glad to have to myself. I passed through a few delightful villages on the way, but things all got rather sparse as I approached the top of the dry, limestone valley that turns into quite a dramatic descent between high rock cliffs. It was memorable; but somewhat spoiled by the tourist village of tea rooms and cheese shops that have been allowed to accumulate at the bottom. I was ready for a stop, though, and I tried three different cafes that, for different reasons, I then had cause to reject. A mile down the road was Cheddar proper, a large and pleasant village, and here I found a bakery with tables in a rear garden. No sooner had I sat down under a large canopy than the heavens opened in the most dramatic way. Water was cascading down the gutters and the world was instantly transformed. The BBC weather confirmed that this would be a possibility for the next three hours at least. It was going to be a game of chance that had the opportunity to go badly wrong!

The East Devon coast was already starting to feel a long way away and I felt I had just used up my remaining contingency with perhaps sixty miles still to go. It wasn’t an equation I liked. So I decided to change the equation. Good decision! From that point on I was able to relax and not feel in a hurry – and even stop as circumstances dictated – knowing that tomorrow could still work out just fine in lovely weather.

If that decision was voluntary, it became almost prescient when I got moving again after the deluge. On the quietest of rural lanes, I got a puncture, my first ever with these tyres that I purchased a year ago in Canada! I was lucky that the incident occurred in the dry and outside the house of a kindly older gentleman. On the grass verge across from his home was a tree with a bench beside it and a swing hanging from its branches. This gave me potential shelter if the rain came again, and a table and chair to work on. When the nice chap came out to see me, he also provided an essential pair of pincers to remove the offending thorn, which was deeply embedded in my tyre, and then an electric pump to save me the effort of inflating it by hand. The dark clouds that I could see gathering stayed to one side of me and it was a successful mend. But more time lost! I continued to the gorgeous village of Wedmore, where I decided I could probably come and live, and took stock.

My new destination, which I now confirmed with an online booking, was the country town of Ilminster in Somerset. To get there I had to cross the region called the Somerset Levels. This is an area of drained land where peat is still cut, but it is quite different in character from the Fens of East Anglia. For starters, you are never far from a hill. There are many “islands” that rise up from the flatter land around, breaking up the horizon and providing dry sites for villages and towns. Probably the best example of this is Glastonbury, whose evocative tower capped Tor I could see on the skyline a few miles to the east. This is thought to be the fabled Isle of Avalon. But there are plenty of others. One that I happened upon today was Burrow Mump, a conical hill with the ruins of a church on the top. It is quite a landmark. With my newly acquired sense of freedom to explore, I stopped and climbed up to the ruins for the extensive views of the Levels in every direction. It was well worth the time and effort.

At the bottom was a pub, and I judged that I should stop here as well, since the sky was threatening again. It was empty except for four people – including two staff – and I learned that the pub would be closing its doors at the end of the month. Given its location and its appearance I can’t say I was surprised, but it is always a sad thing. We all hoped a buyer would be found. The staff blamed family issues that they didn’t elaborate on. Perhaps it will become a community owned pub, since these are important meeting places for local residents. My fingers are crossed. In the meantime, it emerged that the young man behind the bar was a friend of Archie Vaughan, son of former England cricket captain Michael Vaughan, who used to live just down the road from Hathersage. I once met Michael at a garden party and we had a long and really very interesting (to me) conversation over lunch. I remember being impressed how tall he was. My young son and his did cricket training together a couple of times before my son gave up. That was in 2008 when Michael had just given up playing. Now, 18 year old Archie – already an England under 19 player – was making only his second county appearance for Somerset this week and his mate, also a cricketer, kept us updated on his excellent performance. He took eleven wickets in the match as a Somerset pulled off an unlikely win over defending champions Surrey with five minutes of the weather affected match remaining. Brilliant stuff.

After that, I had a really pleasant and sunny hour of cycling to Ilminster where my hotel awaited. Despite all the interruptions, I was there at a civilised hour for dinner, all showered and everything, with another lovely day to look forward to after today’s somewhat more moderate, but really very enjoyable progress across Somerset.