Leaving our “Guest House” in Abergavenny, we found the A465 and started heading west.  It was not the most inspiring road by Welsh terms, but still an improvement on what we were used to. It is called “The Head of the Valleys Road” which might give you some idea, and as we neared Merthyr Tydfil, it did become quite industrial. I started to have some sympathy with Terry’s opinion. We passed the town to the north and picked up the A470 to Brecon. Now, this is where Terry was spot on. We immediately entered the Brecon Beacons National Park and this road was mind-blowing, stunning and every other superlative you can conjure up.

It took your breath away and you almost had to pinch yourself to believe it. Talk about scanning the area ahead, your eyes worked overtime just trying not to miss some new bit of scenery. Half way along this road we stopped in a lay-by. We had a coffee, stood there, and savoured the moment. It was a “things to do before you die” event.Understandably, it was a busy stopping place and in a vain attempt to shatter our euphoria, some woman parked her car on the grass verge, walked back to us and enquired. “ Are you going soon? I want to park my car.”“Yes, of course. So sorry! Give us a minute and we’ll get out of your way.”We didn’t mind, but would she have asked anyone in a car to move? I think not. The second half of this road was no disappointment. The area became more mountainous which offered wonderful hairpin bends and it was national limit all the way. Too soon, we reached Brecon and then took the A40 west bound, which skirts along the northern edge of the National Park. We were riding with such excitement at the experience, that we almost had our toes scrunched up. As some of you may know, last year I bought myself a new Honda Fireblade. An act bought about by the Male Menopause is a distinct possibility.

I have still kept my aging VFR 800 and before “The Trip”, my dilemma was which bike to take. Nige was all up for the VFR because he felt the ‘blade would shame his still perfectly capable, but slightly passé, ZZR600. I chose the Fireblade! And boy, was that ever the right decision? Anyway, it’s impossible to shame Nige. He is a totally brilliant rider, great company and there is no one I’d rather do a bike trip with, except, maybe, Ewan McGregor or perhaps Charley Boorman, or both. The Fireblade is an awesome bike but I feel slightly guilty riding it. I could never, ever ride it to anywhere near its capability, but what’s so nice about the bike is, it just doesn’t mind. She’s there, always happy to let me push a bit further but never getting upset if I don’t get it quite right. And we bonded on this trip. We became as one. We gelled. I fell in love all over again. The way to really get to know your bike is to ride bend after bend after bend all day long, constantly fine-tuning. It’s a rapid learning curve.For me, one of the highlights of the day was towards the end, when Nige, who was following at the time, came through my headset. “Dave, you look really good on that bike”. What greater compliment can a fellow biker make? 

And so there we were, eating up the miles in a blissful state until a fairly urgent call of nature became apparent. We had just entered a small town, and so I spoke up. “I’m stopping here Nige. I need a wee.”I pulled into the car park and Nige obediently followed.The locals were happy to charge 20p for the pleasure of using their toilets in this particular town.“My wife and I usually go into those together.” said Nige.A quick look at each other and we decided that was not an option.40p later we were fully refreshed but slowly realising we didn’t have a clue where we were. Trying to be resourceful, I spotted a woman who looked like a resident, but my question to her was not my most considered.“Excuse me. Do you know where we are?”The look in her eyes said it all, but very slowly she offered “Llandovery”  It was time to get out the map, consult the pre-planned route, and decide what changes to it, if any, where necessary. Time was getting on and so, by mutual agreement, we knocked our visit to Carmarthen on the head.

We had always planned to have our lunch in Aberystwyth and this was looking like being a very late lunch if we stuck to our route. So we decided to turn onto the A482, which was about four miles further up the road and belt straight across to Aberaeron on The Irish Sea and from there, follow the coast road up to Aberystwyth. Again, superb biking road across country to the seaside and neither of us regretted the change of plan. It was by pure chance that, halfway along the A482 we entered a town and, in unison, we shouted to each other “This is Lampeter!”Eager to spot our “friends”, we scanned everywhere for signs of them but sadly, no signs of a hippy encampment or a “Wellies R us” retail outlet. We hoped they had made it but, on reflection, it looked like an ambitious destination for some of them. As soon as we hit the coast we stopped for a breather and gazed across the water towards Ireland. Then it was up the A487 coast road for Aberystwyth and lunch. This was the busiest stretch of road we encountered on our Welsh visit, but the sun was shinning and the view was great, so who cares? When we came up to the sea front in Aberystwyth, it was a simple choice. Do we turn left or do we turn right? We elected to go left, whereas, every other bike goes right. This place is a biking Mecca and all the bikes, (except us) park in the middle of the promenade surrounding a wooden diner - café. Great place for lunch! Fully sated, we left Aberystwyth heading east on the A44, and found another glorious road. It was mountainous, with hairpin bend following hairpin bend, wonderful scenery and empty. Sometimes it felt like we had the whole of Wales to ourselves. For those of you who, like me until recently, have never travelled Welsh roads on your bike, let me try and explain. Imagine that, for every road you ride, the day before, a team of highly skilled engineers had been there and resurfaced the road to an amazing standard. No potholes, no tar banding, no debris and smooth. No one had then come along and stuck up plated limits just because the road could be dangerous for un-skilled drivers.

In Wales, if you get it wrong, you can plummet hundreds of feet down a mountainside. THAT keeps drivers on their toes! Imagine also that the roads were put there not just to get from A to B, but to always get the best vantage point for the wonderful landscape. Imagine that a message goes out to all other road users to get off the road because you want to use it. The occasional overtake becomes a novelty, not the norm.  That’s Welsh roads. From the A44, we turned onto the A470 and eventually came to a quaint little village called Builth Wells, with narrow streets and old houses. As we approached, we both felt that an ice cream and a cup of coffee would not go amiss. Riding down the High Street, I pulled into the first available parking place that we could squeeze two bikes into. We dismounted, removed our helmets, looked up and saw we were parked opposite a café selling any-flavour-you-can-think-of ice cream. It had a garden on the side built like an oasis in the side of a hill. Perfect.We were sitting there in the sunshine, supping on our cappuccinos and trying not to dribble ice cream down our leathers, when what must have been the entire membership of the Yamaha V-Max Owners Club rode by.

 The deep throated roar of masses of bikes, reverberating off the village walls. Fellow patrons asked if we were part of the group, to which we hastily denied any involvement. It was as if we felt guilty to be part of anything disturbing such peace and tranquillity. It was time to consult the map again. Time was on our side and we had no desire to rush back to Terry so we looked for a detour. The map promised a scenic route if we went up the A483 to Garth and then took the B4519, which eventually joins up with the Brecon road. As soon as we turned onto the B road at Garth, the narrow road started a rate of assent not dissimilar to a Jumbo jet leaving Gatwick. The road twisted and turned and climbed and climbed, again through the most stunning scenery. Signs advised us that this whole area was given over to the military, and anyone daft enough to leave the road would be immediately blown up. Why does the army always acquire the most beautiful areas to play their stupid war games? Continuing the assent, we passed a couple of cyclists (admittedly all in lycra gear) riding up the road making us feel guilty to be on motorised transport.At the summit was a stopping place guaranteed to be free from mortar fire. We stopped to drink in the view. Strategically placed benches and a panoramic map of the whole area carved into a granite slab were available for the convenience of the weary tourist.We had almost convinced ourselves we were the only people left alive in the word, when a chirpy little voice from behind acknowledged our presence with a friendly “Hello” It was one of the cyclists who, despite high altitude and extreme exercise, was no more out of breath than us. These cyclists then turned around and proceeded to ride back down the hill. They were clearly doing the ride just for fun! The descent on the other side was much more gradual, and we picked our way along through the wandering sheep.

How the sheep survived in this war-torn utopian area, when humans could so obviously perish if they did so much as step on the grass verge, I shall never know. Finally, we joined up with the B4520, which took us into Brecon, and then it was the A40 to bring us safely home to base camp in Abergavenny. We were riding as if on autopilot on this last stretch. Not that we weren’t concentrating, it was that the roads were still so blissful and our riding skills felt like they were honed to perfection after a day in the saddle. Man and machine in perfect harmony! Sad to report, but a relief for us at the time, Terry was conspicuous by his absence when we arrived back. We guessed it wasn’t because he had been out receiving any awards from the Welsh Tourist Board. That evening we found a pub just round the corner where we had a few beers, a good meal and sat chatting with one of our fellow guests, where, strangely, the subject of Terry never came up.