Honiton (South East Devon) to Conway (North Wales)

I had already cycled almost 200 miles, and as I sat guzzling my juicy fish and chips whilst steaming myself some broccoli on my stove, I felt completely at peace and decided there and then I was in the midst of experiencing the affects of the best decision I had ever made…Surrounded by a glorious garden of flowers on a small patch of lawn probably just big enough to squeeze another tent on, in the shadows of the village church and the forested hills that rose beyond its spire, my tent was pitched in the back garden of a lady who I reckon could claim to own the smallest camp site in world!

Before you delve in and learn about my venture through a part of the UK, you should be aware of the whys and wherefores of the trip: I was hoping that solitary riding in beautiful, serene countryside would provide the tonic to ease the pain of a broken heart, and having spent 10 weeks of the summer holidays in BT Faults Dept, I wanted some adventure!

Day 1: Honiton-Glastonbury

I set off, wobbling precariously down Devonshire country lanes, gradually distancing myself from my starting point whilst edging steadily towards my finish which lay beyond the hills of the Snowdonia National Park, in a cool autumnal breeze that escorts the summer to its end. I’d stuck my map down my padded cycling shorts ready to be yanked out as the last junction disappeared out the back of my memory. I became steadier by the hour, but for now, I was not accustomed to balancing all items essential for living on the rump of my bicycle including a tent, sleeping bag, stove, pasta and porridge.

My first day saw me riding for over 9 hours non-stop, winding my way through narrow, picturesque, high hedged country lanes that characterise Devon both alarming and intriguing first time visitors. The fresh breeze I started my journey in evaporated into a haze of warm sunshine and I witnessed the first signs of the impending harvest in the form of dark, plump, ripening berries hanging like baubles on a Christmas tree, from the bushes that hemmed me in.

My delightful, tranquil and carefree ride through the heart of the countryside, the intrusion of farm yard smells only enhancing the experience, was crudely interspersed to my distaste, by short bouts of A or B road peddling, skirting round the edges of small towns as I entered Somerset.

Having disregarded any specific training for my ride, preferring to trust in my general decent level of fitness and stamina to get me where I wanted to be in a week, the strenuous nature of the exercise began to take its toll. Working out the mileage I needed to cover given my time limit, I generally only stopped for a ten minute lunch each day so this was definitely going to provide the challenge I had hoped for.

My fussiness with regards to where to camp, resulted in a far longer cycle than needed be as I disregarded two campsites in the village centre preferring to trundle on, now severely lacking in energy, to the tiny village (more like a hamlet but it had a pub) of North Wootton where I eventually set up camp. Having toyed with the blissful idea of treating myself to a satisfying pub meal I decided that the mile back up the to the pub was an ugly prospect and as I boiled my pasta and mixed it in with a can of tomatoes and a can of tuna, I began to retch as I took my first mouthful, my body too exhausted to eat.

Day 2: Glastonbury-Bristol

Waking early was a gratifying choice, after I showered I cooked my porridge to a bright sun emphasising the jewelled blanket of dewy grass which lay stretched out before absent of any other campers. I hit the lanes once more, feeling fresh and ready for the lesser challenge of the shorter ride ahead of me that I foresaw taking me past Wells, over the Mendip Hills, alongside Chew Valley Lake, through Long Ashton, eventually ending up in Clifton where I would kip on my brother’s sofa for the night.

Arriving in Wells with a flat tyre I was able to salvage it in the yard of a hard wear store courtesy of its kindly owner and as I left, within a minute, the inner tube burst with a load startling bang!…so replacing it this time, went on my way once more, cycling gaily through the low rolling hills of the Mendips, skirting the edge of its their highest point at 1000 feet. This is a stretch of road I fondly recall, as I sped along making fabulous time and exerting little energy: It seems that a large weight on ones rear propels you forward, as if trying heartily to reap forgiveness for the heavy and cumbersome burden it proves to be when trying to get yourself up any slight incline!

There were times, when the roads were busy and dominating the airways and sound waves with noise and fumes, and when I found myself having to dismount for the umpteenth time and push myself uphill, as the map, as if possessed by an evil Imp, made the distance I had come look so short in comparison to the route which lay ahead, that I only felt disheartened. But this feeling of deflation was soon cast away with the spin of my wheels when I found myself minutes later rolling down pretty lanes with the sun sparkling through the leafy branches above me in a protective, shady canopy, wafting through the scent of honeysuckle…

My timing proved impeccable, as I approached Bristol and turned onto another small lane, a welcome release from the busy B road I had been following for about 10 miles since Chew Valley Lake, I became faced with the soiled rears of 20 cattle swaying down the road in front of me…Some time later I found myself leaning on the gate of Ashton Court Estate. I road happily all the way up to and across the suspension bridge into Clifton and into the world of creature comforts I hadn’t missed once.

Day 3 Bristol – Abergavenny

You are now to learn of how I cheated, just a little bit: To get out of Bristol avoiding a bunch of A roads, it’s necessary to take the train across the water into Wales, dismounting in Abergavveny. This meant I missed out on skirting the Cotswolds but also spared myself skirting Gloucester and an unavoidable ride along the A40, but admittedly, missing out on a jolly jaunt through the Forest of Dean. Nevertheless I could still claim to have ridden over about 400 miles in less than a week and as I pitched my tent at the foot of the Black Mountains at the rear of a pub, I wondered how I would fair attempting the hills of Wales for the next four consecutive days and headed in for a couple of pints!

Day 4 Abergavenny – Knighton

As I cooked my porridge the first beams of the sun crawled over the surrounding hilltops, infusing anticipation into me. The first 16 miles to Hay on Wye, took me through a valley lane, whorlling its way along the base of the Black Mountains, who seemed to earn their title of mountain as they rose up tall and steep by my side, to over 300 meters. I saw no one, other than being rudely barked at by a passing sheep dog trotting down the road in the opposite direction; this was to be the norm of my journey; very little interaction with others, animal or human, but it was this distance which proved so refreshing.

The views were stunning, lush green fields, wooded hillsides, emulating a serene sensation causing the corners of my smile to curl contentedly, happy and thoroughly fulfilled with my own company.

I reached the village of books a couple of hours later and over coffee, contemplated the pending route. The only real preparation I can claim to have done, is scribbling down the number of various tourist information bureaus along the route I foresaw taking: With the summer drawing to a close, calling ahead to the campsite I could only guess I would reach, was a necessity.

With the sun overhead and making good time, I sidetracked off the main road and threw my bike down, clambered over a gate into a cow pat field and sat pondering over my current feat, absorbing the sunshine by a small steam. I was knackered.

A few villages, a moist rhubarb turnover cake (that I have never forgotten as being the most delicious cake I’ve ever eaten) and two young boys hitching a lift up the road with a dog later, I arrived at my night’s rest. Over a cup of tea, I learned how my weathered faced host (with the garden campsite) was also a cycling enthusiast and was planning a long trip through the Balkans. I couldn’t place her age but I knew I was impressed by her proposed journey and went and had my two pints in one of the pubs on the deserted high street.

Day 5 Knighton – Meifod

A quiet lane, set up high on the hillside giving me wide views of the surrounding countryside, took me out of the village. It wasn’t long before I abruptly took whiff of a repugnant stench in which I immediately held my lips tight shut and as I rounded the corner I saw the source of the unpleasant odour, the carcass of a sheep.

Today was a beautiful day; I rode through the hills for a long time and let my mind wander and make up stories, as I watched an old man tending a rusty old tractor nearby a tiny hut made of ancient crumbling stone positioned at the top of a steep field. I started to dream about what it would be like to live a life of moderate solitude in the countryside living a life of virtual self sufficiency…I concluded that it would be most cleansing and starting day dreaming about my perfect home, a tree house in the woods…

I emerged onto an almost deserted newly tarmaced main road, still only surrounded by fields and approaching the edge of a forest the road twisted towards, with a steep barriered incline to one side finally taking me up against. I was continuously at the mercy of my imagination, taking me away from reality: Suddenly everything became quite eerie, the only vehicle to pass me on this stretch of road was a racing motor bike and I felt like I was in an episode of Top Gear set in Scandinavia or Canada.

A while later, due to a slight, missing but vital detail on my map, I became ‘lost’ for the first and what was to prove the only, time on my trip, causing me to double back on myself and adding on an extra five miles and half hour or so to my journey, with the added angsty abuse from another couple of feisty sheep dogs. After another long day, I was pleased when rolling into the tiny village of Meifod, the sight of the King’s Arms came into view, draped with sprawling ivy, the building could have been made entirely from the tangling weed itself as not one inch of stone was visible…

Day 6 Meifod – Betws-y-Coyd

The best night’s sleep so far…I splashed out (all of 20 pounds) on a spacious room with an old oak, four poster bed, where I settled comfortably after a delicious vegetable lasagne and two pints, completely ignoring their camping area out back!

Today was to be the most wonderful albeit slightly imagination stirring and irksome day so far…

I headed off towards what I had been told was possibly the most beautiful and wildly remote road in Wales which lay beyond the 6.5 mile long, Lake Efyrnwy. Turning off away from the lake, after the bright red post box that stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the woods, the road climbed for about four miles through densely wooded areas sometimes slashed open by the mark of deforestation. I pushed my bike up virtually the entire way and my imagination started to run riot. All I could think about was how I was a young woman on her own, in the middle of nowhere and the road I was on would make the perfect hide out for a mad axe man…!

What seemed like forever later, I finally emerged out on top of the mountain I had just spent the last hour climbing, crossed a cattle grid and became a speck on an expanse of landscape that rolled off, dropping away in front of me as I peddled along the ridge of a huge deep crease causing the split between two high green mountains, the only other specks being sheep.

I could see my path stretching out in front of me and a wide grin swept across my now cold, damp rosy cheeks…For what looked like about six or seven miles on the map, virtually all of which lay before me to see for myself, was downhill…I flew down the road whooping, hardly able to hear my cries of excitement as the wind roared in my ears and I became swallowed up by the dramatic ruggedness so characteristic of Wales, that draws people from miles away, to experience.

Having passed Lake Tegid and Bala, I veered off the A road which took me on the most remote feeling stretch yet…Although only for about seven miles, I cycled through relatively flat fields and farmland and as I turned around to look where I’d come from, I could see no roads, no houses, nothing but green fields making up the land around me. Again my imagination set off, I imagined the road never coming to an end, leaving me stuck, literally in the middle of nowhere for ever…Obviously this did not happen and I lived to tell them tale! Only just though, as the most vicious sheep dog so far barked and growled as if it wanted to eat me alive, from behind a gate of a farmhouse…Having had the life frightened out of me, I couldn’t wait to reach the main road again, only I’d rather not have had an inch long thorn stuck in my tyre when I got there.

I yanked the thorn out and then quickly replaced it as air started to gush from the surprisingly large hole it had left behind. I managed to race along the A5 for several miles, putting every ounce of energy into the final section of my journey that day, pushing on towards the tiny village of Betws-y-coed which I ended up rolling the last 4 miles into, thorn gone and tyre completely deflated. I was not the latter however, smug as hell that since I discovered the thorn my ride consisted of a super flat, fast stretch of road finishing with a long down hill…

I found my campsite, pitched my tent, repaired the puncture, and treated myself to a pizza and two pints in the village pub.

Day 6 Snowdonia National Park – Day of Rest!

I took myself on a jolly jaunt up the road to Lake Ogwen, a place I had frequented before, locked the bike up and clambered clumsily up the stoney path.. It was beautifully sunny so I chilled by the lake for some time reading before going bouldering in the indoor climbing wall at Plas-Y-Brenin.

26 miles later, I returned to my campsite, and was thrilled when an old acquaintance come friend offered me a comfy bed in the charmingly, rustic, delightfulness that was his mother’s country house-guest house up the road.

Day 7 & 8 Betws-Conwy-Cardiff

The last days of my short but wonderfully fulfilling journey was spent with the parents of my now ex-boyfriend; I made the difficult decision not to see him not realising I would therefore, never see him again (until randomly bumping into him with my new beau, five years later!) and this would also be goodbye to his parents I had been so fond of.

Having returned all the kit I so much appreciated using and that had served me so well, I was left with a half naked bike and a black bin bag of my stuff waiting on the tiny train station of Conway station eating an apple turnover cake with my mother in law who never was.

The five or so hour journey that took me back to Cardiff gave me plenty of time to reflect on my journey. With a resting heart rate much lower than it was seven days previously I certainly think it may have ached a little less.

Riding for an average of nine hours a day, speaking to virtually no-one, gave me a feeling of escapism I didn’t think possible on our tiny island crammed with over 100 million inhabitants; I realised that adventures, I only thought possible overseas, can be had in the UK and you don’t need to be bathed in riches to be able to take them on.

My cycle was a challenge of endurance and independence and I experienced some of the happiest moments I’ve ever on my own in the Welsh hills. Sometimes its good to go it alone, leave all loved ones behind and take on a challenge for yourself, and then not just physical well being but an emotional and spiritual peace people pay for, can be yours for free…

Fran Hardy