Bikes and Terry - part one

Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman must take the credit for the most fun I’ve ever had on a bike.

When my mate, Nige, first started watching “Long Way Round” he pestered me remorselessly to go on an epic trip on our bikes, and like many other inspired people, we haven’t done it yet - but we did go to Wales and we did meet Terry.

This was to be the year of the “trip” and we planned our route around northern France. A modest trip, I know, but adventurous for us. It was the cost of crossing The Channel that first turned our attention to Wales.

“Everyone says the Welsh roads are great for bikers” one of us remarked, and what an understatement that turned out to be.

So that was it.Wales here we come. I did the route planning and Nige booked the B&B. And on Friday 23rd June 2006 at approx 15:30, Nige “McGregor” Weldon and Dave “Boorman” Spicer left Wimborne heading for the great unknown - and Terry.

Nige had just bought and wired up an Autocom system for his bike so we could use the Bike-to-Bike radios and, hopefully, stave off those long, lonely hours of solitary, silent riding. Like all great ideas, it didn’t work too well initially. Actually, it didn’t work at all. Several stops and tweaked knobs later, all was fine. In fact, the airwaves on our particular channel must have been jammed by our constant chattering as we made our way up country through Blandford and Warminster and onwards towards Bath. Inspired comments like “All we have to survive on for the next few days is between our legs and in our luggage bags. What a great feeling is that?” and “Did you see the arse on her?”

As we approached Bath, Nige decided he might usurp my detailed route plan and suggested a detour through Bathampton,thus avoiding Bath.

“Fine with me” I retorted, possibly a bit too sharply.

Anyway, the new, winding, narrow route of Nige’s choosing was completely gridlocked with roadworks.However, the radios were brilliant because, fortuitously, we were tuned to the same channel as the system of guys struggling to get the traffic moving.

When we heard “I’ll stop mine and you let a few more through” we knew it was OK to move up the outside.

Rather thoughtlessly, we continued with our irrelevant banter until the message came through our headsets “Will you lads shut up and piss off. We’re trying to do a job here!” Enough said.

So, upwards and onto the M4 and then the M48 to take the old Severn crossing. We stopped at the Services just before the bridge for tea and muffin. Here we met a very strange selection of fellow bikers. Flower patterned wellies for boots and luggage tied on precariously with string will give you an idea.

“Where are you heading for?” I asked, trying to appear friendly.

“Lampeter” came back the reply “What about you?”

“Err,Wales” was my totally useless reply.

Little did we know but Lampeter would actually feature in our Welsh adventure, although neither of us had ever heard of it before, or even knew if it was in Wales or Uzbekistan.

Now, this is when I first heard of Terry. Nige’s contribution to the trip was to arrange the B&B and he had booked rooms in Abergavenny.

“I’ll call Terry before we get into Wales to let him know we’ll arrive just before eight” said Nige. It was a brief conversation.

“Everything OK?” I asked.

“Yes” came the reply, a little too quickly.

It was time to get back on the bikes, cross the bridge into Wales, up to Chepstow and then onto the road to Usk and Abergavenny. Wow. Suddenly there was a total transformation to the ride. This road was smooth, empty and went through great scenery. The bends kept on coming and it was a national speed limit. Little did we know but this was just a tiny taste of the delights to come.

Well, it was a glorious, sunny evening when we arrived in Abergavenny and we had little problem finding the “Guest House” which was on the main A40. There was a nice big private car park with low steel railings to chain bikes to.

Anyway, we had to decide where to park the bikes and then we spent some time scratching and stretching those parts that were starting to ache.We discussed how great it was to be alive and enjoying such pleasures, and how we loved our bikes and how everything was right with our little world, when suddenly a voice boomed out “Are you going to f**king book in or not?”

“Ah, that must be Terry,” observed Nige.

We hastily grabbed our helmets and made a dash for the Reception Office to be greeted by a shaven headed muscular man in his early sixties. His nose had, at least once, had an encounter with an object much stronger than itself.

We stood there, rather sheepishly, whilst Terry explained the regime. At some point I missed something that he had said. It may have been the Welsh accent or perhaps the brusque delivery, but I happened to enquire “Pardon?”

“Are you f**king stupid?” he yelled and then proceeded to virtually frog march us down to the Breakfast area to reveal the mystery of where we were to eat in the morning, if we lasted that long.

Now, this may be giving the wrong impression of this establishment, and that’s certainly what it did to us. However, we eventually made it safely to our rooms, and after a wash and change, Nige and I regrouped in the car park before heading off into town for a meal. The subject of Terry and his hospitality was foremost in our thoughts.

“I think it’s just his manner and he’s probably a really nice bloke”

“Do you?”

“Anyway, we don’t have to stay for two nights, do we?”

Initially, things didn’t get any better on the food front. As we walked through the town, all there appeared to be were take-aways until we spotted a Thai restaurant. It was upstairs with no menu on the entrance door.

“We’ll go up and check out the prices” was the suggestion.

As we reached the top of the stairs a Welsh voice enquired “Table for two, is it?” “Yes, probably, but could we look at a menu first?”

“Well make up your minds! Is it a table you want or just a read of the menu?” came the friendly Welsh response we were beginning to get accustomed to.

“Tell you what,” said Nige,“we’ll do neither and just go. Goodnight”

We did, eventually have a wonderful meal of Welsh lamb, served in an hotel courtyard restaurant by very pretty and polite waitresses.

I have to say that our rooms were clean and the beds comfortable. I had a great sleep and woke refreshed and rose early. It was a bit before the allotted breakfast time so I thought I’d go check on the bikes.

As I passed through Reception, there was Terry. Not sure whether to ignore him or try conversation, I ventured “Alright Terry?”

“I’m alright. It’s all the f**king rest” was his predictable reply. “Where you lads off to today?”

Detecting a small friendly enquiry, I informed him that we were off to Merthyr Tydfil and then up to Brecon before making our way down to Carmarthen.

“Merthyr-f**king-Tydfil! Are you f**king mad?” was his response. There then followed a tirade of abuse about the town and its inhabitants. Something was mentioned about all the children being born with lamb’s tails.

“No” I tried to explain. “We’re not actually going into the town, it’s just that there are great roads there.”

“The only good road is the one that leaves the f**king place.” he said.

After that, I made my get-away, met up with Nige and we went for breakfast. And there we met Mrs Terry. A sweeter, more lovely lady you couldn’t wish to meet. She reminded me of a little plump fairy out of a Disney film.

Well, we had a superb breakfast, saddled up, and started our full day of Welsh touring. And what a great biking day it turned out to be, but we were still destined to return to Terry that evening.

It would be so lovely to now paint you a verbal picture of the farewell gathering as Nige “McGregor” Weldon and Dave “Boorman” Spicer set off on their “Not so Long Way Round” tour of Wales. There would be a group of smiling faces looking just a bit concerned for our wellbeing. Amongst the crowd would be Terry and his little “sugarplum fairy” wife, waving frantically, with Terry possibly offering some last minute advice on places to avoid. Perhaps our friend from the Thai restaurant would be standing in the background next to all the nubile waitresses from the Angel Hotel who had served us so well the previous evening. Our wives would be in the foreground, trying to grab the last kiss before helmets were donned, with just a hint of a tear in the corner of their eyes. Perhaps even some fellow bikers, attired in daisy-patterned wellies. But no.

Two solitary figures left the car park, rode across the road, and filled up with petrol in the Esso garage. to be continued next issue...