Sunday, June 25, 2017

Bristol, England to Galway, Ireland: Wales, Tractors, Boats, and Trains

When we last left off, I was in Bristol, about to head into Wales. I was well recharged from my stay with Hattie and Will, who let me stay through midday to update my blog and fed me copious amounts of food, for which I was most grateful. Bristol was nice; despite being large, it was cycle-friendly, with lots of bike lanes, quiet side roads, and not too many hills (not compared to Cornwall, anyways). In any case, at some point I had to leave the security of my gracious hosts and venture out into the world.

Well... I got to Wales, and it looked like this:

Okay, it was a bit more dramatic than that., the app I use to route plan, told me there was a footpath shortcut to the bridge to Wales, which I gladly went towards. I got there only to discover cement poles blocking the path, about a foot between them and five feet high, intended, obviously, to prevent bikes from getting through.

Without said shortcut, I would have to go ten miles out of my way, so... I just lifted my fully loaded touring bike over my head. Twice – once on either side of the path. After biking uphill out of Bristol in 80 F weather, lifting a 60 lb touring bike over my head was very, very, hard. But it saved me an hour of pedaling.

Then I went to Wales, across the Severn Bridge, which is about 2 miles long with a pedestrian/bike path on either side. Once across, I was at sea level, which of course meant there was only one way to go... up.

Around 6 or 7, I started looking for a place to stay. Feeling bold from my success two nights ago at asking to sleep in someone's field, I decided to try again. The first person I asked said... “We've got horses, try our neighbors.” I tried their neighbors... and met Paul!

Paul was happy to help – they had sheep, but only in one of their two fields. After checking with his wife, he, his rusty scythe, and his beagle Gus walked me out back to show me a nice spot under an ash tree. I could tell Paul was friendly, but if he had managed to fool me and was planning on killing me and taking my stuff, he would have gotten style points for using a rusty scythe. But no – the scythe was for clearing a path to the river, which I was told was clean, so I promptly went swimming in it. After a day of lifting my bike over cement poles and biking up hills in heat, diving into the cool, clean water of a random river in rural Wales was heaven. I did it again and again. Shortly after my return, Paul appeared with a plate of food – “My wife thinks you look a little skinny” – and a beer – “You're not a Mormon or anything, are you?” I would have loved to join them on their porch and entertain them with my uke, but my sense was (in bringing the food out to me instead of inviting me in) they wanted privacy. All the same, they were very kind, and it was a good night.

I didn't see anyone in the morning so I left a thank-you note on the door and went on my way. Wales is quite mountainous and the roads, houses, and industry have mostly developed in the valleys – including some very good cycle routes. Going off the advice from my hosts in England, I chose not to take the most southerly route, putting me through a valley about 80 miles north of the coast. That day was mostly uphill...

...and I met two other cyclists doing the same route, Ian and Ann:

Ian and Ann were very kind and humble (upon seeing me approach, Ian exclaimed, “A proper cyclist!”) and invited me to stay with them near Aberystwyth on the west coast of Wales, even suggesting a route to get there (and also suggesting that I might have a “meal, bed, shower, and laundry” if I were to make it to them). I hadn't yet booked my ferry to Ireland so this seemed like a definite possibility – I told them I would look into it (I generally try and accept every invite I can, since doing so usually leads to making new friends, but the logistics sometimes just don't work out). Wales was mentally challenging: very hilly, limited route selection, and lots of highway noise (all because of the aforementioned mountainous landscape), so a stay with a kind host would have been an especially welcome reward upon reaching the coast.

That night I made camp in the woods of a park near a town called Glynneath. It was, unfortunately, just across a river from the highway – such things happen when everything needs to be crowded into a valley – but the river was beautiful to watch the sun set over.

I left the next morning to discover the bike path went along... a towpath!

If you're just joining me, towpaths are a theme of the trip so far – I've hit at least one in every country. I also passed by some abbey ruins; sadly, they were closed to visitors at the time, but they were still pretty from a distance:

The rest of the day was pretty long, and I didn't make much progress. By noon, I had only biked 18 miles – having gotten up around 6 that day, I wasn't really sure where the time had gone. I was tired from the hills of the past two days, the weather was overcast and chilly, and there was a headwind and occasional rain. So I guess you could say morale was low. But I pedaled on, knowing there was almost certainly a bed and a shower in my future.

I saw a lot that day, and I'll let the pictures do the talking:

Memorial for the disaster at Gleision Colliery, 9/15/11.

Graffiti under a bridge, Pontardawe, Wales.

Two horns wasn't enough.

I decided to take the side road. There was a hill. This was my reward.

Fish and chips.

House sign I liked.

"Viennese Finger."

Another abbey.

I reached abbey #2 around 6 and wanted to call Ian and Ann to confirm my arrival the next day. I asked a few people walking around the abbey, but nobody had service – one of the double-edged swords of cycle touring is you see things in the middle of nowhere... but you're in the middle of nowhere. I was about to give up and use the local payphone when I decided to try one last person, a fellow across the road from the payphone who was digging a trench out from his house. That was Lloyd, and after communicating that it was a local call (“It's a pound to call the US from the phone or a pound to call the US from my house...”), he invited me in for tea and let me use his phone. Ann and Ian confirmed I could stay with them the next night. Awesome.

Lloyd and I ended up talking for another hour or so. He was a treat to talk to because he considered himself a laborer, but was very humble about it (“the time came to go to college and learn how to use computers – this was back when they took the space of an entire house – and my friends and I decided we'd rather learn how to build houses and install pipes. Now we feel like we missed out, and all our jobs are being outsourced, which is frustrating. But I'm proud of the work I do, and I wouldn't have it any other way. When we're gone, you can have your way with the world”).

Eventually we looked up the distance to Aberystwyth – just 39 miles! I could make camp anywhere. I asked Lloyd if he knew anywhere a tent would go unnoticed, and he did – the neighbors just across the way had a pasture where some sheep were grazing, but it was a large pasture and there was likely to be a spot where I could pitch a tent without disturbing them too much.

The next day, I pedaled through wind, mist, and rain, over dirt tracks, and past fallen trees, 39 hard miles to Abersytwyth. Ian and Ann were waiting at the train station with a cup of hot chocolate, which was just about the best thing I could have had at the time. We drove the few miles to their house outside of town – a beautiful drive – and my one night stay quickly became a two night stay as we compiled a list of things to do (me: “Is there anything I can do for you?” Ian: “You can drive my 1965 Massey Ferguson... I mean, mow for us.” Ann: “Next he'll ask you if you've ever done beekeeping”).

Sampling of the weather on my ride in.

Part of the route to Abersytwyth.

Me on a 1965 Massey Ferguson.

I didn't take many pictures during my stay, mostly because I wanted to relax. I'd been feeling mentally exhausted lately and a day off – completely off, no picture-taking or blogging or story-telling or anything – was much needed. Ian and Ann were very generous with their hospitality, for which I am most grateful.

Recall that during my stay in Calstock, England, just outside Plymouth, I decided I was going to go from Ireland to France instead of Scotland. The ferries to France were mostly booked up for the next month or so, so I picked one of the few dates left that I thought would fit with my schedule and pulled the trigger. This means I didn't have as much time as I would have liked before needing to be in the southeast corner of Ireland. To give me more time, Ian and Ann kindly offered to drive me to the ferry; once arriving in Ireland, I planned to take the train to the west side so I could bike back east in time for the ferry to France.

Of course, the whole time we were driving to the ferry, they kept saying, “Ooooh, there's a great cycle track here...” and “this bit is just beautiful to cycle...” and “We have friend all along the way you could stay with....” I felt a little ambiguous about having accepted a ride, but that's just the way the timing works sometimes (it was also raining – though it's always raining in Ireland). It seems I've added yet another place to my “come back to” list – the ride from Abersytwyth, where Ian and Ann live, to Holyhead, where the ferry to Ireland was.

Then... I was on a ferry.

(it was pretty cool, they let me ride my bike on and off instead of taking it through security)

Then... I was on a train.

(I didn't take a picture, you'll just have to trust me)

Then... well I assume I'll be in Galway shortly.

Somewhere on the Irish Sea: Where the Kyle Things Are

I get a lot of positive comments on my blog, for which I am most grateful. I worry, however, that I give off the impression cycle touring is all eating rainbows and pooping butterflies, which of course it isn't (I eat mostly peanut butter). There are wonderful things that happen, and I think the wonderful things are often a greater magnitude than they were when I worked a desk job 40 hours a week, but there are also things that aren't so wonderful, and it's distinctly possible those things are a greater magnitude as well.

If your cup of tea is eating rainbows and pooping butterflies, and you have no desire to read a post that doesn't make you feel warm and bubbly inside, then turn back now, dear reader. If, on the other hand, you want the full scoop on cycle touring, the bad as well as the good, then read on. My goal isn't to depress you, it's just that when I sit down to blog I share largely the “good” things that have happened. If I am to do justice to the truth, then you must know that there are “bad” things, too.

I've written before about my anxiety, but that post had a happy ending – in the end I was able to extract optimism out of a crappy, rainy, cold, headwindy day (my wonderful Warmshowers hosts Mark and Katz definitely helped). Unfortunately, that's not always possible – not for me, anyways. Perhaps it's a personality flaw, but at the end of a 60-mile day of pedaling all alone by yourself, it sometimes just takes too much energy to do anything but despair about setting up the tent and doing it again tomorrow.

I don't mean to complain – I know I'm currently leading a very privileged life. I get to see much more of places that that vast majority of the rest of the world might not see at all. For the most part, I can go where I want, when I want. Strangers invite me into their houses and feed me and give me a shower and a place to sleep. I haven't forgotten that, and I am incredibly grateful for it. If it wasn't for the kind strangers, in fact, I'm not sure I would do this at all.

But... as much as I questioned the purpose of my life when I was sitting behind a desk (“Am I really doing something good for the world? Couldn't someone else do it just as well?”), imagine how much of a question there is when all I do is... pedal. I've recited it so often I've memorized it: the purpose of life according to The Secret Life of Walter Mitty:
To see the world,
things dangerous to come to,
to see behind walls,
to draw closer,
to find each other,
and to feel,
that is the purpose of life.

This is, for the most part, what I do. It just doesn't always feel that way. Sometimes it feels like what I do is... be subject to the weather and the whims of fate. Hope to find someone kind enough to give me a shower. Worry I'll spend my entire budget on hostels and hotels before even making it halfway around. Fix flat tires. Exhaust myself.

One of my favorite psychologists, Brene Brown, has the tenet, “vulnerability is the birthplace of joy.” I believe that. I believe the more of yourself you reveal to the world, the more likely you are to get where you're meant to go. I don't think we meet people who love us and have experiences we enjoy by hiding who we are and what we want. But being vulnerable is terrifying. What I say to people is generally something like, “Do you know a place where I could put my tent tonight?”; what I'm thinking is, “and if you don't then I have no idea what I'll do please help please.” I don't expect people to take care of me. I don't expect things to work out. And I'm sure it's a matter of time until they don't (weather forecast for Ireland? Rain. Every. Day).

So while there are moments of joy – meeting a new friend in a place I've never been, sitting on their back porch playing uke, being greeted by a stranger who wants to talk about being zen, eating a whole pint (excuse me, 500 mL) of Ben & Jerry's in one sitting, diving into a clean river after a day of being drenched in sweat – there are also moments of terrifying, overwhelming fear, anxiety, and loneliness. Where will I sleep tonight? Tomorrow? The day after? Which country will I be in one week from today? Will I make my ferry or will I get a flat tire? Will it rain tonight? Tomorrow? When will I talk to my mom again? When will I get to kiss a girl again, or just spend more than 12 hours with someone I trust?

I don't know if I believe in fate or not. Sometimes, things seem too coincidental to have “just happened” on their own. Thinking of one night in particular, here's a sampling of things that had to go right for it to happen the way it did:
- I decided on that route (I could have been in a different country or city, I could have taken longer to get there...)
- I decided not to try and make the ferry that day and instead bike around the estuary
- I ran into x number of people who delayed me x amount
- I was offered a yard to camp in along a particular route
- Because I knew I had a place to stay, I stopped for food along that route
- Two strangers redirected me from where I was going to go for food to somewhere else
- I arrived just in time to order food
- (etc)

It is humbling to think that all those things went “right” (at the time, deciding not to try and make the ferry felt “wrong” because it meant an extra 20 miles) but also frightening to think that it can take that many things going “right” for me to end up where I ended up.

Vagabonding is often portrayed as a romantic lifestyle. And in many ways, it is. I get to sleep in a new place every night. I get to see hundreds of places I've never been before and meet hundreds of strangers. I get to sleep in the woods and bathe in rivers and play ukulele to sheep under the sun in a field in rural Europe. Yesterday I got to drive a 1965 Massey Ferguson (old fashioned, but high-quality tractor). I can stay where I want as long as I have a visa and someone to house me, or I can go where I want as long as there's a road or a bike trail.

But I also worry I won't have a place to sleep. I worry I'll get rained on all day and my sleeping bag will get wet inside my tent and I'll freeze. I worry I won't meet anyone I get along with, I won't be able to speak the language and thus I'll be unable to buy food or even find the bathroom. I worry I'll get woken up at 2 AM by the police and asked to come with them, and my bike and everything I own will get confiscated and I'll never get it back. I worry my passport and my credit card will get stolen. I worry my frame will break and I'll be stuck in the wilderness for days.

I'm not asking for sympathy. I know I've put myself in this situation and I am the only one responsible for getting myself out. I could quit, fly home, get my old job back, and resume the 8-5 lifestyle. Physically, I'd be safe. I'd have a place to sleep every night, friends that care about me, and I could call my mom anytime I wanted. But I don't think I'd be satisfied with that. I think I'd always wonder, what if I'd kept going...?

...and that's the scariest thing of all. The feeling in my stomach, the physical pull to go, go, go!, knowing that what engages me is being unsafe, that if I don't see the world, things dangerous to come to, I'll be untrue to myself... that is absolutely terrifying.

So no. Cycle touring is not all butterflies and roses and meeting strangers who turn out to be your new best friends. It's not all people being kind to you and letting you sleep in their guest bedroom and feeding you. I write about that because writing about it helps me let go of the anxiety and fear and because those are the parts that I want to remember. I am so, so grateful for those things, and privileged to get to experience them. But cycle touring is also wondering if you'll have a place to sleep. It's wondering if you'll meet people who will be kind to you, people you can even communicate with, or if you're breaking foreign laws or folkways. It's being vulnerable to the world (“I don't have a place to sleep tonight. Can you help? ...and maybe not kill me and take all my stuff?”), and wondering if this is really what you should be doing with your life. It's wondering if you're doing it right – if there even is a “right” way to vagabond.

It's being utterly vulnerable to and completely honest with yourself.

And that is the most terrifying thing of all.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Glynneath, Wales: Musings from the Road

”Musings from the Road” is any post where the content is not constrained by chronology. This gives me more freedom to write about whatever comes to my mind, though the content will almost always be influenced by the tour in some way.

Travel begets travel

Often, a funny thing happens when you travel: you're given reason to travel more. When I was headed to London everyone said, “Go to Cornwall.” On the way to Cornwall, many people I met had suggestions for other things to do (perhaps curiously -- and I didn't remember it existed until it would have been a ways backwards to visit it -- nobody said anything about Stonehenge). When I was with Shaun and Dani in Dawlish, saying I had a day to get to Plymouth, Shaun said I really needed three – and indeed, while going through Dartmoor was beautiful, I didn't see any of that coastline (not the Cornwall coast). Once in Plymouth, my host Ian informed me that if I visit Scotland in the summer I'll get eaten alive by midges, which are small enough to get through mosquito netting, and require netting of their own that is more or less the fineness of a stocking.

I was originally going to swing back around to London and Scotland, having two people to visit that way, but in the interest of time (making it to Africa eventually...) I'm going to have to come back for them, and for London, and for Scotland. Maybe I'll do Europe: round 2 after going around Africa? We'll see...

It's heartbreaking to think of all the people out there I will never meet; but, it's heartwarming to know they are out there. If the sampling of people I have met is an accurate sample of the rest of the world, then there are hundreds, probably thousands of places I could go and feel like I belong. Because yes, the landscapes are beautiful, the history is rich, and the adrenaline of getting to everything by your own power is an enviable high. But the people are really what make you feel like you belong.

So the problem is doubled, then: there are the places you hear of when you visit the places you go, and there are the places you go that you then want to go back to. You can bet when I was cycling the north coast of Cornwall it crossed my mind to go across the peninsula and revisit Dani and Shaun in Dawlish.

That's Alright Then, or, British English

England's primary language is English, but it's British English. This doesn't just mean speaking with a British accent, it also means some different words and phrases. The one that caught me the most off guard was “that's alright then” instead of “you're welcome” or just as a conversion closer. For the British English speakers out there, saying “that's alright” in the US might be considered passive aggressive. So for my first week in England I was wondering how I managed to offend everybody. One conversation in particular got a little out of hand:

British dude: “Good morning.”
Me: “Good morning.”
British dude: “That's alright then.”
(pause), me: “Um... can I help you?”
British dude, over loud traffic: “I just said good morning.”
Me: “What?”
British dude, yelling: “I said, GOOD MORNING!”
Me, timidly, “Okay, good morning.”
British dude: “That's alright.”

Here are some other noteworthy differences (British English on the left, American English on the right):
- Bubble and squeak = Leftovers.
- Pastie (pronounced “past-ee,” “paste-ees” are something you wear on your chest) = Meat calzone, sort of like farmer's pie... but shaped like a calzone... but a pastie.
- Cream tea = Tea, scones, jam, and clotted cream. If you're in Cornwall, the jam goes on first; if in Devon, the cream goes on first (one of my hosts explained this to me and, upon stating the opposite of what he does, he said that “just seems wrong.” There is even a story about this that will go on the map at some point).
- Clotted cream = The fattiest part of the milk skimmed off the top.
“That's alright then” or “Thank you” = You're welcome (yes, this means when you say “thank you” the reply is sometimes “thank you”).
- Rosette = Ribbon (an award for placing in an event).
- Route (way to get somewhere) = route, but in British English it's pronounced “root;” a “ra-out” is the first part of the word “router,” the tool used to engrave wood.
- Cycle track = Bike path or bike route.
- Boot (Shaun: “Our caravan's small enough we just put it in the boot”) = Trunk (of a car).
- Caravan = Mobile home.
- “Course you can” = Response to “can I please have...” (eg when ordering food or a product behind a counter).
- Mudguards = Fenders.
- “Can I use the tap in the loo?” = “Can I use the sink in the bathroom?”

Hospitality and Invisible Rules

I've been doing a lot of thinking on this trip about when it's appropriate to ask someone for help and what it means to be a good guest. It would be sweet to stay with someone every night, of course, but that feels... dirty? I am capable of camping and I don't want to take advantage of people. I stay with people primarily to get to know them, because touring by myself without ever spending time with anyone would get quite lonely, and because people are awesome and part of the point of this trip is to prove to myself and anyone who cares to listen that complete strangers from other countries really aren't that scary. As a secondary reason, if I need a shower and someone is willing to give me one, I just saved $50-200 over a motel/hotel. Often my host enthusiastically cooks, cleans, etc. on my behalf (last night I camped in someone's field; an hour after “Thanks, see you in the morning” they walked out with a beer, a sandwich, and chips, concerned that I looked “a little skinny”), but I am more than willing to cook, do the dishes, and make and strip the bed to save that cost.

My conclusion thus far is that there isn't a one-size-fits-all rule, either in the sense of the person touring, the tour they are on, or the country they are touring through. I stayed with people just under 1/2 the time in the US, though almost every stay with a Warmshowers host was instigated all or in part by weather. I can camp in the rain, it's just... annoying. Not to mention after a day of pedaling in the rain a warm shower and a bed are that much more morale-raising. Despite being instigated by weather (there was one last-minute call after a forecast change where all I asked for was a roof over my head, specifically stating that the garage would do), there isn't a single host I spent less than an hour or two getting to know.

I've been in Europe 13 nights and spent 5 indoors; the rest have either been stealth camping or camping with permission (“Can I put my tent in your yard for one night/do you own a field nearby?”). I expected to spend only 3 of those 5 indoor nights indoors; the other two, I was invited in without asking. It's felt about right.

For a while, staying with people made me a little nervous. I had a stay with one host that more or less exploded in my face when I wrote about it on my blog. I won't get into details for the purposes of privacy, but suffice to say I didn't feel I did anything wrong during my stay, yet I was told I somehow did everything wrong, so I was a bit rattled. Maybe I was off my game and was being rude without realizing (I make mistakes from time to time, sometimes egregious ones!). In any case, for the next few hosts I was very sure to ask if there was anything I could do – the dishes? Strip the bed? Cover the tip? – but the answer was always “no.” Finally, one of them said to me that, and I quote, “my good manners were getting in the way of me enjoying myself.” Their policy was that when they invite someone into their home, their only expectations are that the guest doesn't kill them and take their stuff – that's it.

I often get into arguments with my friends over whether we can judge people based on “invisible rules:” rules that people “just know,” but of course there are some people who don't “just know.” I once shaved my head in college just to see what it was like, and I was quick to be told about all the things I could no longer do: I could no longer talk to children, wear camouflage, act like a clown, etc... because there were invisible rules that if you were bald and did those things, you were a frightening person. I had no idea! (I have no desire to shave my head again, not because of those prejudices, but just because I like having hair more). There is still an outstanding debate between some of my friends and I about whether wearing a fedora automatically transforms you into a bad person. I've written before about localized prejudices – in some countries it's polite to sit in the front of the cab, in some the back; in some you tip, in others you can but rarely do, in others it's rude; etc.; etc. I don't want to discuss whether these prejudices are “right” or “wrong,” I am simply stating them as food for thought.

If you invite someone into your home that you have never met before, I don't think it's reasonable to expect them to know your house rules unless you tell them. I absolutely want to be polite and not make anyone uncomfortable. But isn't the best experience a host can give a guest to feel like they are at home? If someone came to my home and it was their custom to, I don't know, only eat after 7, or eat all the bread in the house, or get up at 2 AM and pray to their god, or make their cream tea jam first – I, personally, wouldn't feel comfortable telling them to do it “my way.” Yea, I might be out of bread, but... honestly it would be a really interesting conversation learning where that custom came from. And if I wanted them to, for instance, clear the table, or not eat my super-expensive imported diamond-flour bread, I wouldn't expect them to know that unless I communicated it to them. If I wasn't ready to learn something about the way someone else lives their life, I wouldn't invite them in, or I would state clearly my expectations.

As a cycle tourist, I know after pedaling 60-80 miles, often up hills, in 90 F weather or in the rain, the last thing I want to do is cook or clean or make the bed. I am absolutely willing to; but, I think most people who host do so because they want me to feel at home. They want me to be able to recharge. And I think they want that because they've been in my shoes before and know how awesome it is to be able to relax and be yourself. They get pleasure from knowing that for however brief a time, despite being hundreds or thousands of miles away from home, despite not having seen anyone in person I've known for more than 12 hours, I had a home away from home. That knowledge alone seems to be, more often than not, the only thing they expect in return.

It can be a fine line, of course, and I'm not saying I'm perfect, or giving myself permission to do whatever I want when I'm a guest in someone's home. Mostly what I'm getting at is, it's been interesting seeing the different perspectives on expectations towards guests and how those expectations are communicated. The places where I've felt most at home are the places where I get to put my metaphorical feet up, and unless those people are lying or keeping it to themselves (possible), they didn't mind. I've also been asked to, for instance, do all the dishes, and I was happy to do so.

It's also been interesting considering what my expectations of guests might be if I one day settle down. I think I'd want them to feel at home, and I like to think I'd be understanding if they didn't know all of my customs. Time will tell.

What are your thoughts, dear reader?

Cycling in England

I've heard many a time that cycling in Europe is better than cycling in the States. I think that's true. It's hard to explain why, really – the roads aren't as straightforward, they tend to curve around and end suddenly and you end up taking 5 right turns in a row and still going the same direction you set out going. I often navigate by memorizing the next few turns (right, right, left; or second right, then left; or I actually take out my compass (yes I actually have a compass) and always turn east) so I don't have to pull out my map as often to save battery on my phone. There are, so far, about the same number of bike paths/cycle tracks as compared to the states.

I think it's mostly a cultural thing: more people bike, and (for that reason or another) the cars are better around bikes. Often I'll think I'm on a road not intended for bikes, either because it's busy or because it's hilly, but often when I am most in doubt is when I am passed by another cyclist. The cars very politely wait behind you if they can't pass you safely; only once or twice have I been passed a little closer and/or a little faster than I'd prefer. If I pull over to let cars pass, or just wave them by, a good chunk of the time I'll get the two-honk “thank you” I was once so startled and embittered by. One time I heard a huge truck coming from a mile away and pulled over; after passing, he honked “shave and a haircut, two bits.” Sometimes people just wave.

It is certainly hillier. I remember biking through Pittsburgh in the States and thinking, “The good news is, this is as bad as it's going to get.” Wrong. There was Devon. Then there was Cornwall. Then there was the Mendips. Now there's Wales (to be fair, Wales has been very well graded so far). I would bet the majority of cyclists here are fitter than the majority of cyclists in the States, both because cycling seems to be taken much more seriously here and because of the hills.

Of course, I'm a tough judge. I grew up in Minneapolis, which regularly contends with Portland for the most cycle-friendly city in the US. Even the least cycle-friendly city here has been very cycle-friendly. I don't intend to put the US and Europe head-to-head, at least not until I've visited France and the Netherlands. Just musing.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Dawlish, England to Bristol, England: Finally! The coast and the hills...

Note to e-mail subscribers: There are two posts today, but there might only be one e-mail. Scroll down!

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The next morning I was discussing my route with Shaun and Dani and it was concluded that I was only taking a day to Plymouth, where I had a Warmshowers host waiting, when I should in fact be taking three days. It's a funny thing about travel: the more you do it, the more you want to do it. When I said I was going to London I didn't know about Cornwall, but there I was on my way to Cornwall and I had already accumulated ten more places to see. It would be nearly impossible to see them all, so that was the day I decided I needed to come back to England one day, having not even spent a week there.

To help things along, Dani very kindly offered to drive me to Dartmoor, another of England's stunning national parks. Dartmoor is where the Sherlock story Hound of the Baskervilles is set (Shaun: “Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?”), and upon arriving, I could see why. As we were driving, Dani commented with her German accent, “It's just... different. The hills are different, the rocks are different, the soil is different. You will see, you will see.”

And she was right.

It was an ordeal to disassemble my bike and cram it into her car along with her busking equipment (did I mention Dani busks for a living? I couldn't get her to sing for me, maybe I will have to hire her for my wedding...), but in a comical way, and it was worth it. The level of conversation left off the night before continued for the hour or two-long car ride, and after a heartfelt goodbye, I was left on what felt like the top of the world, looking back over everything I had ridden in the past week (okay, and been driven that morning).

I pedaled for another hour, slow-going to enjoy the scenery, and at some point realized I had been driven so I far I had five hours to make it 20 miles, mostly downhill, so I took two of those five hours to nap and practice uke and take second lunch and make friends with the sheep. It was very zen.

I finally made it into Tavistock, whereupon getting a milkshake to use the internet and asking the barista for directions, I was given back the cost of the milkshake (“How long are you touring?” “Till the money runs out.” “Where do you stay?” “Oh, I camp in fields, sometimes people let me stay with them. I can theoretically 'afford' hotels, but one night in a hotel is twenty days in Africa.” “Well, I'll get the milkshake then”), and then to Calstock (in Cornwall!!!), where my hosts for the night, Ian and Jane, were surprised to see me so early. Dinner was bubble and squeak, which is British English for leftovers. After dinner, Jane left to be a bell-ringer at the local church, and Ian and I commenced the exchange of stories that so often occurs when two travelers are at the same table.

Ian and Jane were kind enough to let me stay an extra day on the condition I helped with yard work for a bit, which I was happy to do the next morning. I spent the afternoon in Plymouth, a train ride away, seeing the sea, walking the quay, and visiting the monument for the departure of the Mayflower (and another boat too, that sprung a leak so they had to come back, and then they left again, and then there was another leak so they came back... history is really imperfect, isn't it?).

From Calstock I went south on the Cornwall side of the river (Plymouth is in Dover County, so I hadn't actually seen the famed “Cornwall coast” yet), and finally got to see the coast that everyone was talking about.

If you're just joining me you might not know that for the past three posts I've been saying, “must get to Cornwall, must get to Cornwall...” At this point you're wondering: “Was it worth it?” Well, dear reader... the coast was beautiful, yes. But even had the coast been hideous, the journey to the coast, the people I met along the way, and the kindness I experienced – that was worth it. Cornwall was, if you'll excuse the analogy, an Ithaca, a Panama. The view was a cherry on top.

I rode along the coast to Looe, where I'd been told by Ian there was a farmer who “wouldn't mind” if I put my tent up for just one night in his field, and nobody was around so I'm not sure how he could have minded. I should probably mention that it was really incredibly hilly that day, but by that point every day was hilly, so you should just assume unless I say otherwise that it was hilly...

Hills do make for pretty cities though.

In Looe I ran into Ian and Jane again, as they were kayaking down the coast that day. I wish I had prepared them dinner or something to return the hospitality they had offered me, but all I could do was help them carry their kayaks to the car.

As I waited for the sun to set I attended a bowling match. One of the player's wives sat next to me and kindly explained to me what was going on. You can look it up if you want, but suffice to say, it's easy to learn, hard to master...

Finally, I found the spot where the farmer wouldn't mind if I stayed, and it seemed he didn't. I felt quite privileged, since it was really, really beautiful.

From Looe I went a bit farther down the coast to Fowey, which required another ferry, then across the Peninsula to Port Isaac, and I'll let photos summarize the happenings along the way...

I finally found a way to get those clean tires muddy. Now they match the bike!

There was much to explore in Looe.

View from the quay in Looe, I slept on one of those hills.

Unfortunate perspective on this sign...

Couple that sat next to me in Fowey. Heavy Yorkshire accent.

English breakfast. The beans really make it. Take note, America.

Tourist #2, Ian #4.

Cows in the road - first time.

North Cornwall coast.

Bay at Port Isaac.

Field just outside Port Isaac.

View out my tent.

Tourist #3! Hi Dave!
Out of Port Isaac I ended up in Sheepwash, and did I mention it was really hot? So I'd been stopping in every other village asking for water, and in Sheepwash I also asked the bartender if she knew a place down the road I could stay, and yes she did... in her yard.

I hard originally been planning to do another 10-20 miles that day, but I'd had quite an early start (stealth camping + anxiety meant a 6 AM departure that morning) and it was quite hot, so I decided it would be alright to give myself a break and head over to her place. There I met Adam, who took me for a walk, and we discussed conspiracy theories and spirituality and Bitcoin and politics. Eventually we made it back. I tried to read but ended up napping for the better part of an hour.

On Monday (June 18th), Adam saw me a few miles out of town, and the rest of the day was not much but hot... except that someone stopped me at the grocery store with, “Is that your bike outside?” and we ended up talking for a bit (hi Henry!). Henry led me out of town, which was quite nice since navigating towns is always a pain.

The bike racks were clearly made for touring bikes.

I took what must be the fifth towpath of my tour to the next town, and on the way I actually got to see a boat being towed down the river (“You'll have to dismount your bike past the horse, sir”). There are, apparently, four of these boats in all of England, so I considered myself lucky to have been in the right place at the right time – almost as lucky as the guys running the boat (one to steer, one to drive the horse times four boats = 8 of those jobs in all of England).

That night I was having difficulty finding a place to put my tent and ended up asking someone working in a field. That someone was Peter, who introduced me to his wife and son (whose names I have written down but cannot recall just now). Not only was I granted permission to put my tent in their field, but I was invited over for breakfast the next morning, where I learned to eat an egg out of a bowl, something I'd never done before.

The next day was nothing but hot, except I did pass through a town called Cheddar, which seems worth mentioning because... well, I love cheese. I didn't get cheddar in Cheddar, but I did eat a pint (excuse me, 500 mL) of Ben and Jerry's. A lovely fellow named Ian sat next to me on the bench, and we talked about being zen and watching the world go by, and that's what we did.

Before long it was time to carry on, and next were some of the hardest “hills” of the trip, the Mendips. I burned off all that ice cream I'd just eaten and then some, got soaked in sweat, and after what seemed like hours (probably because it was at least two) it was downhill into Bristol...

Bristol, where the graffiti is awesome.

...and now here I am, staying in the apartment of Hattie and Will. They once caravanned across the US and Canada, and have cycle toured in Wales, and have a bike project taking over their kitchen (my kind of kitchen).

And now I'm off to Wales! Country #3. If this post seemed a bit rushed and full of run-on-sentences... well, that's because it's nearly noon and I'm eager to get going. But if what you got out of this was that the past three days were very hot, and that there were lots of spontaneous encounters with strangers (which I hope you like, because that's all cycle touring is, really...), that Dartmoor was beautiful, and that I ate a pint of ice cream in one sitting... then I've done my job.

Rudgwick, England to Dawlish, England: The ocean, the moon, and strangers in pubs

When we last left off, I was in Rudgwick, England, having just enjoyed some toast with cheese (a food you can get anywhere in England – points there), seen about a hundred hounds walking down the street, and somehow managing to survive my first few days in England without getting arrested, starving, or missing out on too much sleep (not that those were at all likely, but of course, anxiety Kyle was a bit worried about them).

So much has happened since then – it's been 11 days since my last even semi-substantial update – there's no way I could possibly cover it all. So I apologize in advance for missing details, encounters, events... but I will sure do my best.

A Warmshowers member in Crawley, just outside Gatwick airport where I flew in, had given me advice on getting to Cornwall which involved taking a ferry from Southampton to Hythe, so Southampton was my next definite destination. Most of the notable events from Rudgwick to Hythe involved scenery and hills, a few of which I will regale you with now (and as usual, more are on the map):

Once interesting thing about England is there are these “public footpaths” going everywhere. “Footpath,” as far as I can tell, is synonymous with “sidewalk,” except that it also includes trails going through peoples' yards and/or farms and/or just the middle of the woods. Some of them seem to go nowhere, some are quite pretty, some look like shortcuts on your map... so when a rather large hill approached and there was a shortcut-looking footpath on my map, I took it.

It was still hilly, and it seemed to be intended mostly for horses, but I survived.

Somewhere between Rudgwick and Hythe, I found a spot in the woods to camp and hung up my fly to dry from the storm the night before.

Southampton was big and beautiful... and a bit hilly, as was becoming a theme (recall the adage: “you should see Cornwall, it's hilly but beautiful” – thus it seems logical that the closer one is to Cornwall, the hillier it gets). It was also a city, and cities are a pain to navigate, but I eventually made it to the ferry and 4 GBP later was across the bay to Hythe, where I stopped for food, some brief interneting, and to listen to a busking accordionist who I wish I'd recorded but didn't.

Outside of Hythe was Beaulieu, which was in a national park (there are a lot of national parks in England, all pretty big – think Yellowstone size – it's pretty awesome). The theme of national parks in England seems to be wide open spaces with livestock running free, quite like some areas of Nevada that are just too big to fence in, but much greener and much prettier... and much less dry.

That day and the next were fairly uneventful, except that the hills became more intense, and the scenery followed.

Also, I met Pablo, who was from Spain, cycling across England with a GoPro strapped to his chest:

Tourists met in US: 1, after 40 days.
Tourists met in England: 1, after 3 days.

One morning I had left camp early, because that's what you do when you stealth camp, and was looking for a place to take breakfast. There aren't many picnic tables in England (and very few benches as well – mostly only in playgrounds, and then I'm the 27-year-old in the playground eating by himself), so finding one around eating time is fortuitous. Passing through Axminster, I saw a sign that said “Sports Center,” and thought, “Oooooo, that sounds like a public place that might have picnic tables!” Sure enough, there they were.

As I was unpacking my bread and whatnot I began to look around. There was a sign for “ball game area” – okay, sports center, they should have an area for ball games... but there were also parking slots for busses... and just as I realized the sports center was the sports center for a school and I was maybe on school property right before school started, a rather stern looking gentleman came over and told me I needed to leave.


Anyways, I apologized profusely (and wondered what would have happened if it had been a country where we didn't speak the same language...) and went on my way. My map had a bike path headed out of town in the direction I wanted to go, which ended up, in the spirit of public footpaths, going through a livestock area...

For this trip (about 2400 miles at this point in the story) I had been running the same tires from my old tour, which already had about 5000 miles on them, and were only the silver standard of touring tires. I had gotten about 4 or 5 flats and decided it was time to upgrade... fortunately, there was a bike shop in Colyton, and they were happy to oblige.

Problem: clean tires, dirty frame.
Solution? Clean frame.
Jk. Solution: find some mud.

Shortly thereafter, I finally got to see the coast in Sidmouth. That entire morning I knew it was there – I would catch glimpses at the tops of hills and I could smell the sea salt in the air, but I hadn't had a 180 degree view of the English coast (or any coast yet, come to think of it). I wanted to do a few more miles that day, having lost 2 hours at the bike shop (the tires I put on were a bit bigger than my previous ones and thus “putting them on” required a bit more than just a tire change).

At first I was going to try and make the ferry across the next bay, saving myself 20 miles around the bay, but then I realized that would involve rushing myself, and if you're rushing yourself, you're probably doing it wrong (in my opinion). Tours are about seeing what's on the way. So I accepted I wasn't going to make the ferry and instead of bee-lining it out, took half an hour walking the pier, soaking in the sun and the ocean and just the being of somewhere I had never been before.

It was this city here.

Then I climbed a huge hill.

The problem with missing the ferry was that I was coming into a city, and I had to make it out of the city in order to find a place to camp. The sun wasn't really setting, but in my anxious mind it was already very late, so when I made it to the town with the ferry I'd missed (Exmouth) I resolved to start asking people if they had a yard I could camp in. I was stopped by Jane, who was very interested in my tour and was a delight to talk to. I traded her touring enthusiasm for cultural anecdotes like what a cream tea and a pastie (pronounced “past-ee,” my American friends, not “paste-ee”) is. She was too busy to host a cyclist at the moment, which was fine of course, it was a delight just talking to her.

I realized in Exmouth I'd forgotten to fill up my water in the excitement of having made the ocean, and when I saw someone in their yard and asked them for the tap (American readers: a sink has a tap, but when when you need water, you just need a tap, so that's what you ask for) I was invited in for tea. Coincidentally, it was a couple catching up with a friend, and the couple was on Warmshowers, lived just across the bay, and offered their yard to me for the night. We traded touring stories, talked a bit about politics (there was an election here recently, so politics are on everyone's mind), and I went on my way with directions to a beautiful bike bath around the bay, and then to their house in Dawlish.

The path around the bay was nice and flat, and I made 15 miles in an hour, which has to be the fastest I've gone since I made it to hilly England. Having a place to stay and thus time not being of any consequence, and having not spent much that day (excluding the tires, the cost of which will get absorbed over time), I decided to treat myself to my first English pub.

I wish I could recount the rest of this night in all the detail I remember it, because it was one of those nights where everything seems to coalesce perfectly and you end up right where you're supposed to be. It really deserves a blog post of its own, and may get one at one point, but for now this will have to do...

In trying to order food and a beer (it was 8:45 and the kitchen closed at 9) I rather embarrassed myself, but also, I think, endeared myself to a few people there. The waitress, Wendy, was one of those people who harangues everyone in the most humorous way, which made it all the more difficult trying to order food, never having seen the menu, not having time to decide, and being jeered (humorously) while trying to order something I'd like but not knowing what anything was. I introduced myself to two couples there, Shaun and Dani, who lived just down the road in Dawlish, where you might recall I had a field to sleep in (“unless you've got a bed,” I said in jest to Shaun), and another couple vacationing in the area, whose names I have written somewhere but can't recall just now.

After dinner (which was quite good) and being bought a drink by the latter couple, Shaun and Dani came over and said, “Excuse me, but is he bothering you? We told him not to go about asking people for money. It's our fault, really, he only gets 5 quid allowance a week. In any case, we'll take him home now.” In all seriousness, they offered to see me to my field, because it was dark and I was moderately intoxicated and it turns out most complete strangers you've never met before are quite kind. The five of us left and poked fun at each other in the parking lot, and then Shaun and Dani got on their bikes and I on mine, and the three of us rode to Dawlish as if we were three friends out for an evening ride.

We made it through Dawlish and spent ten minutes listening to the recording I had of the directions to this field I was supposed to sleep in, and at some point decided I'd just have to go up the lane checking the house names (in rural areas of England, houses aren't numbered, they are named), and worse case I could find another field I didn't have permission to sleep in. Then we got to talking about the real stuff, like what kind of people we were and whether people were good or bad and what that even meant, and at some point Shaun looked at me and said, “Well, do you want a bed and a shower, then?”


So instead of sleeping in a field in rural Dawlish I walked uphill with two no-longer-complete strangers I'd met just a few hours earlier, and then 67 steps (“Dani will take the hill, I'll take the steps. Go whichever way you like.” “How many steps?” “42 I think.” After climbing with my 50-lb touring bike on my shoulder: “No, there's 67.”), a shower, and some apple juice later we were on the back porch smoking, watching the moon rise, and telling stories that began with, “On the night of July 21st, 1942, at 2:15 in the morning...”

That whole night I really felt like I didn't know what to do with myself, because complete strangers can be so freaking kind. It seems weird, but the moment I couldn't quite contain it was just after I'd gone in the bathroom to shower, and Dani was closing the door behind me and said, “Use whatever you need, ya?” (did I mentioned she was German?) “ – soap, shampoo, anything.” Anything? I of course wasn't going to ransack their bathroom, but I think at that moment it occurred to me that I was really safe there. I could put my feet up (and actually, Shaun had said specifically that just a moment ago) and be myself. I was safe in the physical sense – place to stay – but also in the emotional sense, and perhaps even in the spiritual sense, if that's something you believe in.

I don't cry often, not because I think crying isn't manly (whatever that means – another conversation entirely) or it would damage my ego or anything, but just because it doesn't happen that often (maybe there is something psychological there). That night, though, I was so moved that I'm not ashamed to say I was holding back tears at more times than one.

Like I said, it was one of those nights that are the reason I tour, the spontaneous encounters with strangers who bike home with you and not 12 hours later you know you want to see at your wedding. I wish I could give it a more fitting summary, but I'm coming to realize as I blog that some things cannot be summarized in a few words or even accurately depicted in a blog post. Words are an imperfect means of communication and photos help, but all too often nothing can replace or replicate the actual experience, the lightness and feeling of being on a porch at night with the moon and your friends and the intimate entwining of your lives... for however brief a time.