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

Bretagne en Velo 2017: 2

Les Eglises

If you’re into compact, granite churches then Brittany is the place . . . in a close tie with Cornwall. We have stumbled across numerous places of worship in our travels, but lacking any particular religious leanings, or enough architectural knowledge to make curiosity worthwhile, they can be a bit of a ‘ho hum . . . yet another damp and musty church’ experience. Nevertheless, for completeness, I feel it incumbent upon me to document our latest stumbling.

A favourite ride takes us from the gîte to the town of Cléguérec of the famed bicycle pyramid we encountered just after Le Tour had passed through, (see Blog post from years ago, I can’t be bothered to look up which one) and thence on to Pontivy and the Blavet cycle path. This follows the winding course of the river Blavet to St Nicolas des Eaux. This is a 1* site on the Michelin map, which means there is something worth seeing. Last year we didn’t find it but, in possession of new information provided by our hosts, we followed directions to St Gildas and found the little Chapel built into the side of the cliff alongside a hidden bend in the river.

In contrast, the small village of Kernascleden boasts 2* on the Michelin map. On arrival we were faced with the dilemma of deciding which attraction merited this double accolade. Was it the Notre-Damne church of Kernascléden with its ‘finial-crowned pinnacles and the delicate tracery of its rose windows . . . twelve statues of the apostles in the portico . . . 15C frescoes’ and the ‘right transept dedicated to the representation of hell’ . . .?

Or was it the magic bat ears in the bat discovery centre across the road?I leave it you, the reader, to decide which of these two competing draws came top of S’s tick list of must-see holiday attractions . . .

Champignons

On our travels, due to the slow and measured progress that cycling affords, we frequently come across the sights and sounds of nature that would be missed when travelling by car or other forms of mechanised transport. The climatic conditions os this part of Brittany make it perfect mushroom territory, as evidenced by these beauties at the side of the road . . .

Now, regular readers will recall the last time we came across similar fungi (re. Blog post some years ago which I can’t be bothered to look up), and the subsequent realisation that they were home to anoccupant from the fairy kingdom who’s name shall not be mentioned when riding a bike. Being a scientist by training and, as I confidently informed S “lightening doesn’t strike twice in the same place”, we cycled on without leaving a token or offering prayers, or doing whatever is required in these circumstances. Suffice to say that, later that day as we cycled back along the Nantes-Brest canal, S reminded me that I had been correct in my prediction as I spent a happy hour with the tyre leavers and patches repairing not one but two simultaneous lightning strikes on both bikes . . .

Le dejeuner

We all know the famous quote that ‘cyclists pedal on their stomachs’. In practice, one of two daily alternatives present themselves: the baguette, which can be hastily prepare and secreted away in the back pocket or bought en route from a boulangerie (preferred, particularly when supplemented by a custard slice or equivalent) or supermarché (DIY version of previous); or the menu de jour from any restaurant which falls within the cyclists price window (i.e. low and narrow). The latter of these two options invariably means the moules et frites, which we have enjoyed once so far on the trip. The former option is a picnic table located in some sunny spot. S has previously admonished me for including too much food related material in the blog, thereby giving the impression that we are at an extended lunch rather than actually doing any cycling - evidence for us gaining weight while ostensibly on an ‘activity holiday’. The explanation is simple, I keep reminding her, it is all muscle . . .

Ça va

Bretagne en Velo 2017

One of the advantages of living in Plymouth is the ease of access to the ferry to France. At the merest whim, S and I can throw a few items of clothing into panniers, freewheel down to the ferry-port, buy a ticket and, 6 hours later, we will be munching on a plât de fruits de mer in Roscoff. The reality, of course, is quite different when full time employment gets in the way of such impromptu moments; so instead, there is usually a prequel of spreadsheet-led planning: pre booking of tickets and cabins, hotels and gîtes; fettling of touring bikes and replenishment of anti-histamines and Diacalm; not to mention the pre-holiday haircut. One day, freed from the shackles of work, I will fulfil the freewheeling ideal and keep a set of panniers fully loaded for immediate departure as soon as the sun shines – I might even go camping again if it shines enough, there has to be an upside to global warming.

So it was that this year we made the customary annual départ on the Brittany ferries service to Roscoff. Up at 5.30 am to get the 7.30 am ferry meant that the cabin I’d booked allowed us to catch up on missed sleep. Thereafter, followed the standard routine of cycling to Morlaix, where we stayed at our usual hotel and ate at our usual restaurant. We are now welcomed as repeat customers because, although infrequent, we always turn up at the same time every year wearing the same clothes and ordering much the same meals; as the years slip by we lose track of which was which and can only recall be referring back to this blog.

It is after this interlude that the real holiday begins . . . when we set off on the voie verte from Morlaix towards Rostrenen in central Brittany. The voies vertes are a great way to get into the heart of France. They are cycle tracks, often made on disused railway lines and canal towpaths, so are either flat or gently graded. This avoids all the hills, and the old railway lines are generally a direct route from A to B, so shorter. However, surfaces can be variable, so wide tyres and mudguards are essential for a smooth ride – this year, rain made the surface of compacted gravelly-sand quite mushy so, it was harder going than usual and S, accustomed to latching on to my wheel, got more than she bargained for. Maybe I will attach mud-flaps, or maybe not pour descourager les autres . . .

It is possible to cycle off road all the way from Morlaix almost until Nantes, first on the old rail route, and then along the Nantes-Brest canal. The canal is actually very sinuous because it is a series of interlinked canalised rivers rather than a completely man-made canal, so it is much less direct, mostly through heavily wooded valleys, very peaceful and teeming with wildlife. We would be cycling as far as Rostrenen on the canal, then going on-road to our destination of Lescouet-Gouarec, on a high ridge of land that forms and east-west spine along this part of Western Brittany. Our, gîte in this quiet village would serve as our base for daily rides out into the surrounding Breton countryside which conceals many unexpected treasures. Luckily, our hosts who own the gîte and live in the old vicarage,have accumulated a list of interesting destinations which we would otherwise have no idea about because they are not the standard tourist fare – but suit us vey well.

Keiz-Breizh Elites

On arrival, after stocking up on supplies, S and I attended a small arts and crafts fête in the village where we had almost been signed up for a 70 km rando event which was taking place the next day as part of a larger stage race (previously won by Warren Barguil, the Breton cyclist who won this years King of the Mountains in the Tour de France). Feeling a bit sceptical about this, though it was only 70 km, I did a bit of internet research and discovered it was ‘my chance to ride with previous Tour winners’ and join the race route for the last 45 kms to finish within a 3-hour cutoff, i.e. averaging 14.6 mph. Given our current state of fitness S and I decided to give it a miss this year, so we opted for a leisurely ride eastwards to Mûr de Bretagne. This is an oft used stage for the Tour, where the final hill or mûr (wall in French) provides a stiff uphill finish opposite the town, where the road is permanently painted with the names of local cycling heroes. This year, mindful of my previous cajolements to re-enact a final climb of Le Tour, S opted to bypass this signature ascent and opted instead for lunch.

So, with this in mind, we carried on to the Abbaye de Bon Repos, where the main race was scheduled to pass at about 14.25. The Abbaye was preparing for its annual son et lumière, which recounts Brittany’s history from Neolithic times to the Revolution. The show is complete with populated peasants’ village, mounted Knights and flaming torches; but that was for another time so, after an extended lunch of the usual baguette, fromage and a small glass of vin to ensure authenticity we awaited the arrival of the race. In France, even relatively small cycling events with pro and semi-pro teams have a rolling roll closure with police motorcycles and all the accoutrements of a full stage races, but in miniature. So first there was the local TV van getting ahead of the race to film the major climb, then the caravan of the sponsors (Le Télégramme, the local newspaper) handing out bags of tat, which S made a grab for in true Le Tour style. The gendarmerie on motorbikes to close he road were next, then the race itself and all the team cars following behind. As usual, the actual race itself occupied about 30 seconds of this 30 minute period.

One development which seems to be spreading is the 24/7 baguette vending machine. Regular readers will know that I first encountered one of these last year in Caurel – now one has appeared in Gouarec. Nevertheless, this was a welcome sight after the dissappontment of finding the boulangerie fermé after lunch on a Monday. This time S braved the mechanism and withdrew a fully formed pain rustique from within the whirring depths.

Drukpa

The next day we opted for a more leisurely cultivation of the mind. Central Brittany, probably because of its rural and unfashionable nature, is home to an eclectic bunch of arts & crafts types, including many British who have cashed in their overpriced, pebbledashed bungalows in the UK and decamped to a converted granite Barn for half the price. But there are other more exotic emigrés which you would never expect . . . so, it was that today we visited the Buddhist temple near Plouray. This is a branch of Buddhism called Drukpa, which was coincidentally celebrating its 1000 year anniversary this August, as evidenced by the marquees which had sprung up all around the grounds to cater for hordes of extra visitors. As usual, S and I cycled into the compound unobtrusively for a moment of quiet contemplation. Several monks wandered past as we inspected the temple; S took her shoes off and went inside to commune with the jos sticks while I inspected the newly scrubbed gold leaf on the exterior of the Stupa (temple) – a quite unexpected find in the midst of the Breton countryside which made the trip well worthwhile.

I left S to generate some watts at the prayer wheel . . .

Ça va

Spring training 7

Last day on the bike today, which was just as well because there was nothing left in the tank. Legs were hurting, bum was hurting, feet were hurting; so S has sourced some alternative beachwear for our day off tomorrow . . .

. . . Yes, you neard correctly, Greg has allowed us a day off the bike; like good children we have earned a 'non-velo' reward - it will be interesting to see how the other, neglected, muscles work. So, today was treated very much as an end of term 'leisure ride', with attendant novelty wear . . .

Buenas noches

Spring training 5 & 6

Two days, two climbs. Yesterday, Greg upped the pain on the two 'recovering' cyclists - me and S - and took us up the 8 km climb from Caimari to Lluc. My Spanish is very thin, but I now know that Lluc is pronounced Yook and, by extension and much more importantly, the beer Estrella is pronounced Estrooya. It's vital to get these nuances of communication correct. Anyhow, back to the story . . . having trained up for 4 solid days of 45 milers we upped the anti to a 62 miler with a solid 580 m continuous climb thrown in. This was S's first proper climb - you know what I mean, not up to Princetown or the Bwlch- so we were interested to see how she would fare. Well, she made it no problemo and even managed a celebration at the top amongst all the racing snakes and fancy-bike types (not a proper steel lugged frame in sight) . . .

The top of the climb is actually the Coll de sa Batalla and the monastery of Lluc is down below a few km - always a treat when you have to cycle up then down, knowing that you have to cycle back up again before you can go down. We returned the long way, and the lack of fitness certainly made itself felt, not to mention the lack of saddle hardening - Oh for my comfy Brooks saddle which is formed to the shape of my bum.

Today we set off along the coast to Cap Fermentor - another up-down-up sort of ride. The weather has been fantastic and we are in the pre-season before the 'Watneys Red Barrel' crowd turn some parts into Treco Bay on a an August bank holiday . . .

The ride to Cap Fermentor, a promentory in the northeastern tip of Mallorca, is spectacular . . .

But we did have to get there by bike, and S was wearing her camo' top again, so hard to spot her amongst the flora . . .

Buenas noches