Riding the Cambrian Mountains (day 2)
The temperature had dropped to -3.8°C outside overnight. I'd accidentally left the heater on in my room, but when I woke up at 8am I was still freezing.
It was still early in the camping season and I'd had the Woodhouse Farm bunkhouse all to myself. I was still recovering from the previous day's epic, so it took me a couple of hours to repack my panniers, get some breakfast down me and load up the bike. It had gone 10 o'clock before I dragged myself up the drive.
I set off fairly gingerly. On day 1 I'd overstressed my right knee (on the bike) and pulled an Achilles' tendon (stepping out of a hot shower). It was downhill the majority of the way to Rhayader, including a great descent where I got up to 38mph.
Nom nom nom…
Several people had told me there was a great fish and chip shop in Rhayader, so I popped in for some chips. It was only 11:20 in the morning and I'd just had breakfast, but I suspected I'd be glad of them later.
I nipped into the Swan tea rooms for a coffee and got chatting to a retired couple from Stoke. Seeing my cycling gear, they wanted to know all about my trip, where I was headed, how far I'd come. They told me about their friend Charlie Pitcher who used to hold the record for rowing across the Atlantic, single handed. A few years later an American had taken the record off him, so (now in his 50s) Charlie rowed the Atlantic a second time to regain his record. It certainly put "I'm cycling to Fishguard" in perspective…
The day's ride over the Cambrian mountains was looking fairly remote, with no shops or cafés. Not a place you want to run out of food. The Swan do a wide selection of pasties. I filled my panniers. There's also a Spar shop.
The Elan valley
When you leave Rhayader, you set off up the Elan valley along a cycle path through woodland running parallel to the road. It leads you to the first of three reservoirs,
Once you get to the reservoir you follow the shore for a few miles before climbing up the side of the valley to the next reservoir. There are several dams, each one significantly higher than the last.
The route climbs slowly along a narrow track through the trees up the side of the valley, until you eventually emerge at the top to some stunning views from the top dam. The weather was perfect; a deep blue sky accentuated by fluffy white clouds casting dark shadows over the bright yellow and green hills.
Once you've crossed the top dam you gain a bit of height before a fast run down to the riverbed further along the valley. As I was swooping round corners, leaning the bike over and using the full width of the road, I couldn't help thinking it was all a bit "Top Gear". Sun. Clouds scudding across the sky. Fast, curvy roads. Unfortunately Clarkson wasn't too far away; a ranger told me they were in the vicinity filming a Skoda. Luckily, I missed them.
After you've cycled past the reservoirs there's a hell of a climb (12%) that zig-zags up the side of the mountain. There's a well placed bench from where you can look along both valleys and admire the route you've ridden, and the one you're yet to ride. I stopped for a sandwich and had a chat with a passing ranger. She wins the prize for "best office".
The mountain road
At the top you turn left onto a road simply known as "the mountain road" and set off on a fast undulating ride through yet more fantastic scenery.
Eventually the mountain road turns left, and plunges rapidly down a hair raising descent into a steep sided gorge that felt more continental than Welsh. It unfolded into a solid ten minute descent off the mountain, along a road that was cut into the side of a 40° scree slope. I can't imagine how they built it.
At the bottom of the valley the route went off road for a few miles, and I cycled through a field of sheep before disappearing into a thick evergreen forest. I was still going down (quickly) on a bumpy forest track, with bright shafts of sunlight shining between the trees. It was quite a contrast from where I'd been just a quarter of an hour ago, and I was grinning from ear to ear.
It was easily the most beautiful day of cycling I can remember, a title that the previous day's ride had managed to hold for all of a day.
The devil's in the details
The forest track emerged just above Pont-rhyd-y-groes, which is where the guide book said I'd find the Devil's Bridge campsite.
Pont-rhyd-y-groes is a beautiful little village in the bottom of a valley, where three roads meet at a small stone bridge over the river. It's more of a babbling brook than a river. On my side of the bridge there was a big shed where you could buy coal (guarded by a collie on an enormous chain) and the post office. There was no sign that there was any more to the place than that.
Learning from yesterday's mistake, I'd already phoned the campsite. They were open and expecting me. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon, and I was looking forward to getting the tent up, enjoying the rest of the evening sun, and reflecting on the incredible day I'd just had while sipping a cup of tea.
I'd need milk.
I went into the Post Office. About the size of a small bedroom, it was run by a lovely old lady who'd clearly been behind the counter for years. Who better to ask for pointers towards the campsite?
I bought my milk, and then…
Me: "Do you think you could point me in the direction of the campsite?"
Her: "No, there's no campsite here."
Me [idiot]: "I'm sure there is, it says so in my guidebook."
Her [looking puzzled]: "No, no, there really isn't."
Pause.
Her: "There's one in Devil's Bridge."
Devil's Bridge. That was my campsite! I was confused.
The coal seller popped out onto the road to see what was going on. Once he realised I wanted to get to Devil's Bridge they started giving me directions. I showed them my map, my guides pointed to the campsite, and I immediately realised what they'd been trying to tell me all along.
The Devil's Bridge campsite was 4 miles away, back in the direction I'd just come from, in a village called Devil's Bridge. Worse, Devil's Bridge just so happened to be on the other side of the steepest, longest hill that I'd encountered yet. As cock ups go for a cycle touring guidebook, this was quite a big one.
Cycle touring in the Welsh hills is a little like going to the gym and doing a five hour low intensity spinning class, interspersed with regular bouts of competitive eating.
I spent the next 30 minutes winding myself up the hillside at 3mph. If it sounds utterly horrific, the redeeming factor you should consider is that it's at a level of effort that you can keep up almost indefinitely. At 3mph you can gain a lot of height in a relatively short space of time — the view down through the forest below me was impressive, while the road through the trees ahead unfolded glacially slowly in front of me. It beats the crap out of the gym.
All I had to do now was to limp a couple of miles across the mountain tops (I'd gone from valley floor to hill top in the space of about 45 minutes) before flying down the hill into Devil's Bridge to find a rather flash campsite. My field (I had the only tent) even had proper bike stands, a cover to keep your bike dry, and a security light.
It was the first night I'd be spending in my new tent, and after last night's -3.8°C scorcher I was a little nervous about the temperature. Luckily there's a hotel bar round the corner that does steak and chips, wireless internet, and beer. By the time I left the pub I was somewhat less bothered.
The barman was a local Audax rider (for the non-cyclists amongst us, that means he regularly rides 130 miles through the Welsh mountains along with loads of other "enthusiasts" for fun). He'd seen me arrive in the evening, and wanted to hear all about my trip.
I'd had two amazing days of sunshine, and can't imagine ever seeing mid Wales under better conditions. While it was warm in the sun, it was still fairly early in the year and there was a chill in the air. It was a desperately cold walk back to the tent, and promised to be a colder night.
The day's stats
- Riding time: 4 hours 16 minutes
- Distance: 36.94 miles
- Average speed: 8.6 mph
- Max speed: 38.3 mph