Cardiff to Builth Wells
Statistics: 77.7 miles, Maximum speed 40mph, 2 beers
Our 8:30am start from Buddug's house in Cardiff ended up as a 10:00am departure full of bacon and coffee. We faffed about a little more by travelling to 'see the sea see' and dropping in to the railway station to buy our somewhat hopeful return rail tickets from Holyhead. The day was a sharp contrast to our departure on the English coast-to-coast (C2C) route that had been shrouded in a thick mist and dampened with a slow drizzle. As we cycled through Cardiff's wide sunlit streets small cottonwool clouds floated in a wide watery-blue sky. Progress started in earnest when we passed Cardiff Castle, entered Bute Park and started up the Taff Trail. The stupid little fat dogs, their smiling owners (blissfully unaware of their pet's attempts to get bisected by passing bicycles) and the dappled shadows of the trees falling on the silver river made for a most scenic, almost idyllic, atmosphere.
Out first test was the pillock-infested hill up to Castell Coch. After a very steep climb we were presented with a gothic revival castle (obviously a favourite wedding venue) and a disappearing trail. When we did locate the way forward the steep ascent proved unsuitable for our road bikes. Imagine a steep slope covered in a thin layer of dry porridge oats and laced with boulders the size of your head and you have a picture of it. This led us to make an important decision. "If there is a road (with or without picturesque dappled shade) we'll take it." Pontypridd came and went and the route continued to be generally attractive. 'County Police Station 1901', the odd nice chapel and some lovely views slipped past. Despite what my friend Chris had previously said, some of the denizens of the area also looked pleasant natured and attractive.
Lunch had been fixed for Merthyr Tydfil, and there it was duly had. We were looking for a nice cosy pub offering light grease-free food. Sadly we couldn't find a pub serving so much as a pig and lard pie so we dropped into a bakery and grabbed some supplies for an al-fresco lunch. This gave us the chance to watch the passing people of this lively market day town. To be honest lots of them were ugly and those who weren't, obviously feeling some kind of social pressure, were doing their best to make themselves so. Those dreadful haircuts with the artificially forward-shifted crowns and those nasty "do my tits look like a pair of badly stuffed cushions in this?" one-strap tops abounded.
Here, I suspect, was where the day's fun began to peter-out. Indeed, the post-Merthyr trail was something of a shock to the system. What was marked on our map as a double crowned hill with a steady climb turned out to be somewhat more challenging - although this wasn't immediately obvious. It is worth mentioning the old adage that 'the devil is in the detail' and warning potential trans-Wales cyclists that the little devils at Sustrans miss a lot of detail out of their route-elevation profiles. The Talybont-on-Usk area gave fantastic views over the valley. The gentle initial climbs backed by rising thermals were easy and the descents (sheltered from the northerly wind) were fast. So far so good, our top speed rose to 40mph and filled with enthusiasm we decided to give Brecon a miss. Ah, happy times, we were on the home leg to Builth Wells and looking forward to an easy last few miles. Oh, no no no no no, my proud beauty.
Starting at around Boughrood we began our 'easy last few miles', or as it might more accurately be described, 11 miles of living hell. While my silly grin turned to a grimace Dave looked like he was enjoying it as he steamed away up the hills. However, I remained confident that I would catch him up later using one of my normal methods:
a) finding him in a steaming heap half way up
b) engaging in a break-neck, 50mph, skin flapping, 5G descent.
I'd like to say that one of these schemes worked but after the first six miles I had to settle for keeping him in RADAR range. As a substitute I decided to cling to the abstract notion that Builth Wells sounded like a nice valley sort of town - probably with a Georgian spa hosting some kind of massage convention. With eleven miles (ELEVEN FUC*KING MILES) of almost non-stop uphill behind me I must have passed into some kind of vegetative state and as I came round I found myself rolling up the drive of The Cedars guesthouse. (Subsequently it became clear that I had done an unspecified amount of the afternoon's cycling with a flat back tyre.)
We were shown to our room and lay there on twin beds murmuring "mmmm, inaction, mmmm no cycling, mmm horizontal". When we eventually showered (the bathroom was so small that we had to do it in four shifts) and changed we stepped out into the glamour of a Builth Wells Saturday evening. Well there was certainly no Georgian spa, the pubs looked non-too-promising (there wouldn't be any work done on the farms that Sunday) and the only restaurant was full. To be fair the chippy was excellent and even I couldn't eat all the chips but on the whole I wasn't impressed. Builth Wells registered no more than 'two' on the horse/town scale and I suspected that even those equine inhabitants were incestuously related. The delights of the metropolis exhausted we thought that we'd go back to the hotel bar for a jar or five with the Patron. This closed (very politely) at 9:30pm (maybe we needed more deodorant). As I write this Dave (he's the one with the fat hairy legs) and I are propped up in our beds like Morecambe and Wise watching TV. THANKS BUILTH!
Statistics: 77.7 miles, Maximum speed 40mph, 2 beers
Our 8:30am start from Buddug's house in Cardiff ended up as a 10:00am departure full of bacon and coffee. We faffed about a little more by travelling to 'see the sea see' and dropping in to the railway station to buy our somewhat hopeful return rail tickets from Holyhead. The day was a sharp contrast to our departure on the English coast-to-coast (C2C) route that had been shrouded in a thick mist and dampened with a slow drizzle. As we cycled through Cardiff's wide sunlit streets small cottonwool clouds floated in a wide watery-blue sky. Progress started in earnest when we passed Cardiff Castle, entered Bute Park and started up the Taff Trail. The stupid little fat dogs, their smiling owners (blissfully unaware of their pet's attempts to get bisected by passing bicycles) and the dappled shadows of the trees falling on the silver river made for a most scenic, almost idyllic, atmosphere.Out first test was the pillock-infested hill up to Castell Coch. After a very steep climb we were presented with a gothic revival castle (obviously a favourite wedding venue) and a disappearing trail. When we did locate the way forward the steep ascent proved unsuitable for our road bikes. Imagine a steep slope covered in a thin layer of dry porridge oats and laced with boulders the size of your head and you have a picture of it. This led us to make an important decision. "If there is a road (with or without picturesque dappled shade) we'll take it." Pontypridd came and went and the route continued to be generally attractive. 'County Police Station 1901', the odd nice chapel and some lovely views slipped past. Despite what my friend Chris had previously said, some of the denizens of the area also looked pleasant natured and attractive.
Lunch had been fixed for Merthyr Tydfil, and there it was duly had. We were looking for a nice cosy pub offering light grease-free food. Sadly we couldn't find a pub serving so much as a pig and lard pie so we dropped into a bakery and grabbed some supplies for an al-fresco lunch. This gave us the chance to watch the passing people of this lively market day town. To be honest lots of them were ugly and those who weren't, obviously feeling some kind of social pressure, were doing their best to make themselves so. Those dreadful haircuts with the artificially forward-shifted crowns and those nasty "do my tits look like a pair of badly stuffed cushions in this?" one-strap tops abounded.
Here, I suspect, was where the day's fun began to peter-out. Indeed, the post-Merthyr trail was something of a shock to the system. What was marked on our map as a double crowned hill with a steady climb turned out to be somewhat more challenging - although this wasn't immediately obvious. It is worth mentioning the old adage that 'the devil is in the detail' and warning potential trans-Wales cyclists that the little devils at Sustrans miss a lot of detail out of their route-elevation profiles. The Talybont-on-Usk area gave fantastic views over the valley. The gentle initial climbs backed by rising thermals were easy and the descents (sheltered from the northerly wind) were fast. So far so good, our top speed rose to 40mph and filled with enthusiasm we decided to give Brecon a miss. Ah, happy times, we were on the home leg to Builth Wells and looking forward to an easy last few miles. Oh, no no no no no, my proud beauty.
Starting at around Boughrood we began our 'easy last few miles', or as it might more accurately be described, 11 miles of living hell. While my silly grin turned to a grimace Dave looked like he was enjoying it as he steamed away up the hills. However, I remained confident that I would catch him up later using one of my normal methods:
a) finding him in a steaming heap half way up
b) engaging in a break-neck, 50mph, skin flapping, 5G descent.
I'd like to say that one of these schemes worked but after the first six miles I had to settle for keeping him in RADAR range. As a substitute I decided to cling to the abstract notion that Builth Wells sounded like a nice valley sort of town - probably with a Georgian spa hosting some kind of massage convention. With eleven miles (ELEVEN FUC*KING MILES) of almost non-stop uphill behind me I must have passed into some kind of vegetative state and as I came round I found myself rolling up the drive of The Cedars guesthouse. (Subsequently it became clear that I had done an unspecified amount of the afternoon's cycling with a flat back tyre.)
We were shown to our room and lay there on twin beds murmuring "mmmm, inaction, mmmm no cycling, mmm horizontal". When we eventually showered (the bathroom was so small that we had to do it in four shifts) and changed we stepped out into the glamour of a Builth Wells Saturday evening. Well there was certainly no Georgian spa, the pubs looked non-too-promising (there wouldn't be any work done on the farms that Sunday) and the only restaurant was full. To be fair the chippy was excellent and even I couldn't eat all the chips but on the whole I wasn't impressed. Builth Wells registered no more than 'two' on the horse/town scale and I suspected that even those equine inhabitants were incestuously related. The delights of the metropolis exhausted we thought that we'd go back to the hotel bar for a jar or five with the Patron. This closed (very politely) at 9:30pm (maybe we needed more deodorant). As I write this Dave (he's the one with the fat hairy legs) and I are propped up in our beds like Morecambe and Wise watching TV. THANKS BUILTH!
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