Profile
Blog
Photos
Videos
Day 2
Acton Turville - Portsmouth
145km
I wake up as nature intended; the first rays of the new rising sun stir me from deep sleep. I haven't been eaten by badgers. This is one of the most spectacular sunrises I have ever seen. I glimpse it for just a few seconds, I think of reaching into my bag for the camera, but my body won't move. I wake up an hour later.
Travelling through small Cotswolds villages, the thatched roofs, village wells and duck ponds offer the impression that I've taken an unexpected turn somewhere and have now ended up on the borders of Buckland in The Shire. I even half expect to see hobbits in these villages, but I don't. There is, however, a very helpful National Trust warden who points me in the right direction.
I give up my delightful morning of passing through quaint little villages and along quiet English hedgerows for the burly headwinds of Salisbury Plain. The wind is so strong, in fact, that my speed is reduced to a pitiful 17km/h at full steam. After about an hour of this painfully slow progress, I decide that it must very well be time for a baguette and a beer, so I pull in at the next pub. Two pints and a cheese and onion sandwich later, I brave the headwinds once again. What morale the alcohol had bequeathed upon me is soon lost to the wind. This slog seems to continue for hours.
Glad to finally escape the wind, I return to the single lane roads that I have come to love, having cycled all my life in Wales, in the direction of Southampton. I enjoy some sunny spells in the afternoon, and discover that wearing my sunglasses makes the road look further away, and makes me feel higher from the ground, which somehow makes cycling feel easier.
When darkness sets in, however, and I am forced to lose the shades, I appear so low down that I feel as though I am riding a BMX. Hunger decides that we are stopping at the next pub. I greedily chow down on a succulent burger and swill away another pint. I am going to miss real ale just as much as any friends or family that I leave behind me.
Mounting my lights, I take to the road for the final stretch to Portsmouth, and the sea. Navigating these small roads in the dark, I get lost and un-lost several times, but I can make out the right general direction by following the great orange glow of Southampton and Portsmouth on the horizon.
I stop at a petrol station to glug down a milkshake. I've always found it of great interest that one's body informs one of exactly what it wants to consume. For example one may be walking along thinking about the weather, when all of a sudden one's stomach pipes up and requests an apple pie . In this case it is a milkshake. During the course of the next few weeks' cycling, my companions and I will develop a highly effective carb-loading diet, that maximises energy efficiency. This will contribute invaluably to the greater distances that we manage to cover further on, and the greater ease with which we are able to achieve them.
Marion calls a couple of times to see how I'm getting on. Marion, my girlfriend from Cherbourg, has been living with me in Wales, and has caught the train to Portsmouth ahead of me. She is now waiting there for me near the port. I will be staying at her mum's place in Octeville for a few weeks before Laurence and Oliver, my comrades, arrive to begin the real adventure.
I must be approaching Portsmouth by now, it's long been dark. Eventually I start climbing a hill that I figure must be the last. It has some sort of military tower at the top. I race up the hill impatiently, looking forward to the final descent. When I reach the summit I am awestruck. The whole of Portsmouth is sprawled out below, lit up fantastically in orange, and dashed with white and blue. This is a real treat. I'm glad now to arrive at night, and to see this wonderful view, as opposed to the grey monstrosity that I imagine must greet visitors to this place in the daylight hours. I savour the moment, before plummeting down the hill and into the city. The cycle path promises to lead me into the city centre, and the ferry port, but abandons me at a motorway intersection. I proceed in the general direction of the sea, before asking for directions. I call Marion to find out where she is, 'Next to a sign that says BBQ', she says, honestly. I wonder how many signs there are in Portsmouth that say BBQ. This could be a long night. Very soon, however, I find the ferry port, and Marion. There's one other person there, a Frenchman who, like me, has a good few hours to kill before the ferry leaves port. It is midnight, and the ferry is at 7am. At a nearby petrol station we find some incredibly good snack deals, and gorge ourselves on sandwiches, chocolate and coffee. Then we return to the port and get a couple of hours' sleep on a bench.
Eventually, the morning arrives. I rearrange my bags, and board the ferry. The bicycle is just left propped up against the wall in the vehicle section. Apparently this is OK. I go up to the lounge and practise my French for a couple of hours as we cross the English Channel. Incidentally, I find out at dinner this evening that in France this all important body of water is called La Manche. They have never even heard of the English channel.
Land in sight, Cherbourg welcomes us in. The massive, 11km-long breakwater built under Napoleon is a sight to behold, studded at intervals with forts in the middle of the sea. It is a wonder to me how this magnificent structure was constructed at all. Marion's brother Maxime picks us up from the port and we go home for tea. Indeed, this will be my home for the next 6 weeks. During these 6 weeks I will spend time in and around Strasbourg, Alsace, pass through Germany, Luxembourg and Belgium, and spend some time also in Rouen, another beautiful city. But that's another story. This is, after all, a tale of pumping calves, bicycle repairs and sweaty balls.
- comments