Wales: It's what's for dinner

29.9.10


Port Talbot, Wales


I'd like to dedicate this entry to those valiant men and women who have given their lives fighting the good fight: I refer to, of course, the Eternal Struggle 'Gainst Gravity. The road from Fishguard, from which we set off at 10:30 this morning, to Port Talbot, where we are currently resting our dogs, is packed to the brim with hills. If today's journey were some sort of gag gift, it would have to be either sneezing powder made with white hellebore (it causes permanent nose damage- and we saw it in Blarney Castle's Poison Garden the other day after kissing the stone); or good ol' Peanut Brittle, seemingly harmless and delicious from the outside (hey, we're cutting ten miles by taking this country road!) but stuffed with snakes ready to unleash a terrible fright (20% grade? what do I even do?). Indeed, we encountered not one but two separate 20% grades and two dozen or so 14% grade hills, which don't just crest a single rise and then flatten out but rather rise nearly to the heavens then descend so quickly and twistingly you're sure to go straight to Hell. And always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom.

Yesterday, we left the ferry and made our way to Phil and Kay's vacation house, encountering our first Superhills of this country. However, we brushed them aside as the neighbor assured us that these hills are an anomaly in Wales, unlike the rest of the land away from the coast. Many times today, those words haunted my mind - when I had my mind still, that is. It was very difficult leaving Phil and Kay's house, since they were extremely kind, friendly, and generous, and they both had diverse interests and amazing taste in music. Phil clearly is a huge audiophile, having been to many concerts and loving the classics just as much as modern music. In my experience, this is one of the rarest lovers of music, especially for someone of more than 50 years of age. Not only did we chat at length about some mutual favorites (Bowie, Radiohead, Pink Floyd), but he compiled a list of twenty artists that we should check out. What we have sampled is outstanding music. We could have spent a longer time there discussing music, taking in the beautiful scenery, and marveling at the Welsh language. But leave their house we did, hoping to cover some major ground en route to England.


The first 20 miles were extremely difficult, leading us to believe the worst was well behind us as we turned onto a busier and flatter road, benefiting from the flatness and the wind. As such, we made excellent time before lunch, where we refilled our inner food pouches again well beyond a comfortable level and took off, trying to save some more distance and stay safe away from the busy roads. However, we learned the same lesson a second time today: the Welsh are crazy; avoid at all cost any Welsh towns that are not on the main roads. Villages are built at angles that make San Francisco look like Kansas City (no offense, Chiefsland). Inhabitants have no regard for any mode of transportation other than motoring, and even that one is rife with danger. We have seen countless signs warning to slow (or "araf" in Welsh) even when going up a steep grade. At one point, a man got out of his van to take a photo of us conquering (or being conquered, depending on how long he had been observing our struggle) a hill. I'm not sure how my salt-stained bike shorts will come out on film, but at least the offensive smell won't carry over. We found this second range of hills to be much worse than the first, lasting a full hour and a half and simply going up and down and up and twisty down and up and up and up and dooooown (careful! sharp turn!) and up and... bug in the eye, but we were ascending so slowly the damn thing must have flown in on its own.


Around 5, we stopped for a grocery run at a Tesco Extra, a superstore that puts Sams Club to shame. We found the prices to be very reasonable, especially compared to Ireland, which we had been hearing from the locals to be the case. Finally, after putting in one last hour of riding, we pulled off to a small town with lots of grass around that looked great for camping, but the mosquitoes and the feeling of trying to get somewhere safe kept us searching for a better place to go. You see, Wales is much more settled than Ireland ever was, which makes camping in the country nearly impossible unless you get to know somebody quickly. And would you have guessed that this is exactly what we did? At the local public house (like a YMCA but with a bar), we met a number of people who were extremely interested in what we were doing. An older man named Hugh invited us to his place just up the [mountain], but of course after he finished his two whiskeys. As we quickly accepted his offer before he could change his mind, we entered the bar and were immediately bought a pint of lager, even though I initially refused with gusto. After our beer (and Hugh's few drinks), we climbed the [mountain] and found ourselves in a nice, warm house with our new friend and his wife Susan. They kept offering us different goods, like garlic salt or onions for our stir fry or a pizza or shepherd's pie or yogurt or even apple pie. We accepted many of these offers. The shower was probably the best I've had in a while, following a full day of heavy sweating and dirty cursing.


Tomorrow we plan to push the final 75 miles to Paul and Deb's house in Weston-Super-Mare, which is in England proper. As such, I think I'll get some much-needed rest so we can get started nice and early tomorrow.

One final note: the Welsh language is the craziest, most absurd series of ff's, ll's, and gwy's. I haven't seen a vowel yet.