The Bongo Tour 2018: 3

Leaving England firmly behind, we headed for foreign parts . . . Scotland. First stop was to visit my sister and family in Bridge-of-Weir, near Glasgow. Unfortunately, this was only a passing visit, but we did enjoy a wonderful meal accompanied by my two young nephews, Gwyn and Llewellyn, who despite their Welsh sounding names are thoroughly Scottish, thereby creating a cultural conflict by havig a completely unpronouncable name as fsr as their mother countrymen are concerned.

On we went, up the western side to a campsite just north of Oban, on the way to Fort William. On S's insistence we had to visit the sealife sanctuary to look at baby seals. They also advertised an Otter (or was it a Coypu?), but on arrival we were met with a notice announcing that 'Lewis the otter has passed away' so we never did get the full 'Tarka Experience'. But there were the baby seals, drawing many 'awwws' from S, saved from the local beaches and trained to hunt prior to release. . .

Plus adult 'rescue seals' which could not be returned because of various disabilities. . .

One very noticeable thing about Scotland the scenery. The millisecond changes in the weather mean that the vista is constantly changing too. Combine this with driving and the next view always trumps the last, so,you nver get anywhere because you spend the whole time takimg photos. Here you can see a wondeful view of Loch Linhe, in which I am unaccountably wearing a pair of Dave Skinners's compression socks (blessed are the sock-wearers Dave) . . .

One of the highglights of the trip so far has been our visit to the Isle of Lismore, whereupon I took the opportunity to investigate some alternative accommodation, just for research purposed. Now, regular readers will know that S likes a bit of the 5* brandy/hotel (delete as applicable) treatment on occasion, and that, after some persuasion, I always concede that this should be so - cast your minds back to the Chateau de Guer in Bretagne not so many years ago, where we arrived after 70 miles avec panniers and were served dinner by the Marquis himself, then retired to our four poster bed only to fall asleep like stones upon hitting the pillow. . . I digress . . . unbeknownst to S, I resolved to seek out some luxury accommodation to impress upon her how lucky we were to have the deluxe camper. First choice was the castle on Lismore, with easy acces and sea views . . .

Rejected out of hand by S, next was Castle Stalker with a much more accessible route and even better sea views . . .

Again, not good enough. Running out of ideas for novel and luxury accomodation, I fell back on the boutique and rustic cottage approach, easily accessible by proper roads . . .

complete with laundry . . .

and ensuite . . .

S loved it, but unfortunately it was fully booked for the forseeable future with some permanent guests . . .

Next, the Highlands . . .

The Bongo Tour 2018: 2

Wales has been left behind and the open road unfolded before us, leading to exotic lands of . . .

The North
First stop was S's old Uni pal Maureen (& family) in Halifax. A relaxing two days when all I had to do is eat and drink beer because S and M talked without drawing breath for 48 hours solidly, doubtless a world record. The old wool market in Halifax has been refurbished, so you could mistake it for an Italian piazza. The restaraunt in the adjacent arts centre is the place to eat, with Spansih tapas on the menu and 20 craft beers on tap - what's not to like.

Eventually we had to hit the road again, with my new CD of 100 Rock Road Hits ringing in Ss ears, and bid farewell to our wonderful hosts, who have now been conerted to camper van advocates - we are definitely spreading the word. Onwards to . . .

Scarborough
You will have heard of Scarborough - a typycal northern seaside resort - but the truth of the matter is . . . I don't know . . . the campsite is just outside so we haven't been there, except to stop at Lidl to replenish the van supplies. But, it is the gateway to North Yorks and Captain Cook country.

We have settled into the camper van routine, with pitching up and the awning erected in only 90 minutes. Except the bit of plastic, which I made a special detour to Go Outdoors in Stoke on Trent to buy. It doesn't keep the awning attached to the van - so when it starts hosing down with rain, as it inevitably will, we will see what happens. I think there is another 'bit' that I need - suggestions on a postcard please.

The NCN 1 runs from Scarborough to Whitby, so the clear winner for l'activite du jour was pre-determined. Through dappled glades and under bridges we travelled. . .

. . . past Robin Hood's Bay and the fantastic scenery . . .

S wanting to ' . . . see the beach', without reading the sign . . .

No, readers, I did tell her before she headed off, I'm not that much of a b******. Then on to Whitby for fish and chips at the Magpie Cafe, which is apparently the plaice [sic] you have to go . . . Having worked for several summers in a fish n chip shop on the South Wales costa I reckon I know a thing or two about our favourite takeaway. The fish was just fine but I've had better chips - regular readers will remember that I have riffed upon the personal nature of chips in the past: some of us liking a crispy outer carapace but with a somewhat insubstantial inner, then some swear by a meaty but soggy chip well soused in vinegar, and then others prefer those strings of sh** they serve up in McDonalds (other crap fast food retaraunts are available). But one thing you can be sure of whenever in a seaside resort at the height of summer . . . to wait in a bloody queue . . .

Well fed, we did a quick tour of the sights of Whitby. . .

and then plannned the return leg thus:
H: 'I noticed that there were some very rough parts of cycle track on the downhill part from Ravenscar to Whitby'.
S: 'Oh yes, there were, weren't there'.
H: 'Yes, I was thinking that perhaps we could avoid them, which will now be uphill of course, by cycling on the road, thereby avoiding hills and other obstacles'.
S: 'What a wonderful husband your are, we shall do as you suggest'.

Later . . .

Yes, dear reader, cognisant of the earlier missed opportunity of a 30 % descent and climb, I conjured a replacement with added water feature - who needs Alton Towers? In recompense I bought S a pint at the next hostelry . . .

WhosaysIcan'tshow agirlagoodtime?

The Bongo Tour 2018: 1

The Van
The blog has returned, but we are no longer cyclotouring, cyclogîting, cyclohoteling (delete as appropriate) - we are cyclovaning whatever you want to call it. I am the man with the van and S is the lady in the van - but not looking at all like Maggie Smith. And the plan with the van is to travel to out-of-the-way spots and do a bit of cycling; the South of France, Spanish undiscovererd hinterland, the Adriatic coast . . . I mused as I dreamt of sunny climes, grapes ripening on the vine, and campsites set deep in alpine forest glades . . .
'I want to go to Scotland', exclaimed S. 'I've never been and it's supposed to be beautiful'.
Now, as regular readers will know, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or at least depends on the day and time of year when you happen to be beholding. Indeed Scotland is beautiful; I said as much as I bored S with tales of cycling through the highlands during my LEJOG of distant memory. But it is Scotland, with possible stair-rodding rain, Beaufort defying gales and . . . MIDGES. But we have had a summer of endless blue sky and baking hot temperatures - 'the best since '76' you will hear people of a certain age banging on about. So the gods seemed to be smiling on us . . . I joined up with a well known camping club (others are available), booked an itinerary, and we set off north. First stop, to get S into the idea of what Scotland is like, was . . .

Rhayader
This small mid-wales town is in the middle of nowhere. I last visited to take part in a 100 km audax around a series of desolate reservoirs, into a perpetual headwind which changed direction from one valley to the next. My only previous visit was at the age of 10 when we stopped there on a family camping trip In a site next to the R. Wye and, in one of those cyclical events that besmatter life like the spray from S's rear wheel, we have pitched up in the very same spot.

I recognised the river that my sisters and I played in as small children, except now it is ringed with lifebelts and danger signs warning of multiple risks - far removed from the exhortations of my parents to 'go and play by the river until tea is ready . . .' with the barely heard ' and be careful you don't drown' as we loped off through the grass toward it

Mid-wales, is sparsely populated . . . except for sheep and water. Rhayader is a small market town, but with an overabundance of pubs of dubious quality. For the 7 years we went cycling in France we only had one duff meal - moules in Quimper - but the Crown Inn in the middle of town managed to serve me up raw lamb's liver. Now, reguar readers will know that I'm not a fussy eater and quite happy to go along with modern penchant for barely cooked meat - but raw liver????? So I got a refund and went across the road for pie and chips.

So, to the cycling. S had found a map of the Elan Valley trail, which wound its way along the old valley railway line past a series of reservoirs in very scenic fashion . . .

Having purchased some buns at the local cafe we set off on a leisurely ride along the cycle path, taking in the beautiful scenery, until the first 'Scottish Play' of the tour . . .

The small impediment to progress fixed, we set off again until the last dam in the series, with only 20 km on the clock. So, faced with a choice of direction at a fork in the road the following conversation ensued:
H: 'We've only done 20 km. If we go right then it's only 8 km back to town, or we can go this way and do another 30 km loop around and down the Wye valley'
S: 'What is the road like?'
H: 'Much like this really, up and down, it's Wales'.
S: 'OK then'.

Later . . .

Much later when we had to turn round and go back the way we came . . .

So now that we are talking again I am preparing the next adventure . . .

Tan y tro nesaf

Bretagne en Velo 2017: 3

Grand Prix

Another day on the bike, so we cycled once more to Cleguerec to see another race, this time a 2nd and 3rd category criterium around the village. The course was 16 circuits of a 5.4 km course, so we positioned ourselves just before the the finish, which is invariably at at the crest of a hill to inflict maximum pain as the competitors vie for the intermediate sprints at the end of each circuit . . .

Prior to the race we enjoyed a leisurely lunch at the local créperie, then idled in the Sun as the racers busted a gut to grab the points. Here you can see S with an energy drink, somewhat selfishly failing to proffer it to the passing riders . . .

Saints and a Chaos of Champignons

I am serially astounded at the unusual attractions to found in central Brittany. We had decided to take a day off the bike and go out to lunch with Peter & Keith. They suggested that we first have a walk through the ‘chaos’ of Trémargat. Regular readers will be familiar with the boulder strewn valley at Huelgoat, which boasts the famous ‘Roche Tremblant’, the ‘Champignon’ and ‘Le Gouffré’. In this case, erosion had filled a narrow, wooded river-valley with a jumble of granite boulders at the base, through which the headwaters of the Blavet flowed . . .

The almost complete absence of visitors meant that the flora remained largely undisturbed, so it was with fascination that I encountered more different types of fungi growing on the forest floor than I have ever seen . . .

. . . family, genus and species on a postcard. I dread to think of the pranks their occupants will play upon us later?

After our trek through a this temperate rainforest we repaired to lunch at the Coriandre, a quite unexpected ‘new age’ restaurant in the middle of nowhere, where the food was reminiscent of an Ethiopian restaurant I once visited while in Detroit - which, dear readers, is quite another story . . . Detroit I mean. Anyhow, after lunch we were taken to yet another ‘who’d have bloody well thought that this was here’ attraction – a field full of monolithic granite sculptures that represented the celtic saints . . . arranged in a field near Carnoët. The site must originally have been some sort of neolithic settlement judging by its elevated aspect and the motte and bailey type structure at the summit and it was surrounded by scores of sculptures of varying design . . .

Here you can see S puzzling over the significance of this particular example . . .

Ça va