Part 3 - The Return Home 

It was at breakfast the next morning when we both had one of those awful fits of laughter where, the very act of trying to suppress the laugh only seems to fuel it.Terry did all the cooking and Mrs Terry had just departed to the kitchen to bring back our full cooked breakfast. Now, Nige is not that keen on cooked tomatoes and also quite likes his eggs scrambled and he started to speculate on what might happen if he had asked her for something different from the set meal.

We had this vision of a very worried Mrs Terry scampering off to the kitchen, a moment’s silence, and then Terry bursting through the door. His face bright red, a vein throbbing in his forehead and a meat cleaver held high in one hand.    “HE SAID WHAT?” He would yell.     And so we built on this image until tears rolled down our cheeks.

Very childish. I know I’ve used Terry as a humorous backbone to this account of our weekend in Wales, but believe me; none of this is an exaggeration. In fact I could have reported many more equally bizarre incidences with him, but this is supposed to be about a biking trip. Also, believe me when I say that I wouldn’t hesitate for a second in recommending his establishment as an excellent base for touring, especially if you look back on Fawlty Towers with fond memories. And so it was with a twinge of sadness that we went to pack our bags and bid farewell. I must just add that Terry’s parting shot was to insist we stopped off at the bus station car park in town, where, on Sundays, there is an enormous gathering of bikes. His description of the shear volume of bikes grew from hundreds to thousands until his final offering was “It’s the biggest gathering of bikers in Europe!”Naturally, this event was not to be missed, but it must have been too early when we pulled in because we could only count about twenty-five. We didn’t stop. 

We left Abergavenny bound for Hereford on the A465. I know this is a bit of a cheat because, technically, we were entering England for a while, but the road engineers had seen fit not to stop the resurfacing halfway along, and the wonderful road conditions didn’t falter. From Hereford it was the A49 down to Ross on Wye, and this is where we made a mistake. We should have taken the A4138 towards Monmouth (entering Wales again), but somehow ended up on the A40 to the same destination. Never wishing to disappoint, this dual carriageway was like travelling through the Swiss Alps, and so, a little sooner than anticipated, we entered Monmouth and stopped for a rest. We parked up and Nige went off to buy us some refreshment while I people-watched. He returned proudly sporting cans of drink and also a Mars Bar each. As he handed mine over with a beaming smile, which said “Haven’t I done well?” I said “I don’t like Mars Bars”.I mention this because I still feel immensely guilty, and if Nige ever reads this – “Sorry”.  

My wickedness was compounded when we later stopped in Cheddar Gorge and I had an ice cream, which was a double caramel chocolaty sickly creamy thing not a million miles away from eating Mars Bars on a stick (if slightly colder). Our next destination was Tintern for lunch.  We picked up the A466, which steadfastly sticks to the river Wye as it winds its way through the valley, and is another not-to be-missed experience. At one point along here, we came up behind a few bikers who appeared to have no more idea how to ride a bike than fly to the moon. Of course, by our standards, we now felt like riding Gods and soon passed and left them floundering about in our dust. I was leading as we entered Tintern and started looking for a place to stop along side the river, but all the parking places were taken. “Carry on up to the Abbey. I’m sure we can park there,” said Nige. Just then we rounded a bend and suddenly the most amazing apparition, silhouetted against the blue sky and distant trees, dominated the whole view. Its towering stonework a rich deep oak-brown colour, matured by the passage of time. “What’s this Abbey look like, Nige?” “Don’t know.    Maybe they’ll have some signs” And so, Laurel and Hardy pulled into the car park and took a leisurely stroll over to the conveniently placed café, which boasted a very attractive outdoor seating area. Bikers of every description occupied the majority of benches. 

We dumped our gear on a vacant bench and wandered inside, where we decided on a pot of tea for two and a couple of pasties, which we asked the girl on the till to warm up. She came round our side of the counter and put both pasties in a commercial looking microwave oven. Now, God had seen fit to bless the young lady with a magnificent bosom, which she held, barely restrained, behind a low-cut t-shirt and our attention was slightly distracted when she casually announced “You’ll know when they’re ready coz a bell will ring and they will pop out!” We fell out the door and erupted into fits of giggling like a couple of adolescent schoolboys. What a wonderful way to let you know when your pasty is cooked!!!! 

Back on the bikes and unknown to us at the time, the road from Tintern down to Chepstow was the last really excellent ride we were to experience that weekend.  

The M48 Severn crossing was closed and we were diverted back down onto the M4. Our route then demanded an anticlockwise circumnavigation of Bristol and a journey across the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Approaching the bridge, the road was closed and we were diverted in towards Bristol, where any further information was nonexistent. In an act of desperation, we pulled into a very large park area to try and gather our bearings.  Before long, we noticed a very happy looking lad approaching, grinning from ear to ear, and obviously keen to help, which he did. We were very close to the bridge as it turned out. As we thanked our shinning knight, he eagerly told us he was about to take his direct access bike test. See, fellow biker and the renowned camaraderie was, once again, evident. Sadly, it was a rubbish ride down to Cheddar with awful roads and heavy traffic.We stopped in the hot sunshine and I ate the afore mentioned ice cream under the glare from Nigel. From here, we rang our respective wives to announce our imminent return, only to be told the weather at home was very poor. Gloating in our good fortune with the sunshine, we left Cheddar and then immediately hit the rain, which persisted on and off, all the way home. And so we rode south in virtual silence, each with his own thoughts and memories. With each mile, we moved inextricably further and further away from our biking heaven, hardly seeing a national speed limit and having to avoid potholes and debris.  Eventually, just outside Salisbury we stopped in a pub car park, before parting company. Nige to return to Wimborne and me to Romsey. 

Two figures stood in the drizzle, shaking hands, and thanked each other for a truly brilliant weekend.