Day Eleven (2001)
First day of biking. Alone just the two of us now and absolutely terrified. We woke up late and finished of our packing. Our hosts had made us an enormous English breakfast. We gorged ourselves not too long after waking up. Then we set out. Leaving was far harder than I thought it would be. Our hosts have become surrogate parents to us and leaving was leaving behind everything familiar and safe. We read The Hobbit tonight and tolkien describes Bilbo as half Took and half Baggins one adventurous the other homey. Such a one am I and leaving brought out the Baggins in me in spades. Our journey today can only be described as hard. We traveled up over the slope of the Long Mynd. A road so difficult it was amazing. It was like climbing to clouds. But our descent was pure pleasure, the green hills of England rumpled around us speckled with the white of sheep, the Devil’s Chair looming up at our side. We stopped for a rest in Bishops Castle, at the cathedral, and were treated to the melodius sound of the organist practicing. When we left we were once again faced with an enourmous hill that almost broke us. But I have gained a small insight into the nature of hills, a truer understanding of what a hill really is, than can be gained from inside a car. Our trip down was once again amazing with the castle of Clun looming like a jagged tooth below us. When we finally arrived at Clun it was strangely anticlimactic. I had no idea what to do with myself and would have wandered around aimlessly had we not found a map. We followed it to the hostel, a quaint old mill converted to a travelers rest. It is stone and wood and comfortable and vastly different that I expected. Of course we have a dorm to ourselves, the disease (hoof and mouth) that has ravaged the cattle of Britain has done the same to the travel industry. We found on our arrival here that a few things had not happened as planned most especially my water bottle had broken, filling my backpack with water and drenching my map. But I am tired enough to overlook small problems. Tomorrow we will face the consequences of today and we will decide were to go. I only hope that with experience the fear that knots my belly will diminish.
Day Twelve
Exhausted at the town of Knighton just over the hill from Clun. The pain of yesterdays cycling has hit us hard. We have traveled well les than what we did yesterday. Each step seemed like the last. I only hope we will make todays goal tomorrow.
Our day began inauspiciously at the hostel. The rain was coming down in a gentle mist that would have been beautiful had it not signaled such a wet day. We biked to Clun castle a border fort that protected the welsh marches. Then we biked into the truly unknown. Right out of Clun we hit an enormous hill followed soon after by another. The rain created a beautiful mist that left us and our belongings dripping. Finally our bodies broke down too much to carry us any further and we coasted across the Welch border to this our resting place. Wales, Cymru, the magical land of dragon of Merlin of Arthur. If Knighton is any sample for the rest of the country then I despair for the heirs of the pendragon. It is a filthy town that seems to sport no pride. Coasting in we passed a filthy junkyard that spilled out into the street; further on a rotting couch lay carelessly in an archway. The main hotel was rotting and dilapidated. Strangely the most beautiful structure in town was the visitors center for Offa’s Dyke, Welsh pride in a king who styled himself the first king of England. We have found lodging at an exorbitantly priced hotel, The Red Lion, that my mind wants to call a hovel but my heart, dry at last and no longer beating as though ready to burst, calls paradise. We have broken our budget today. Too many days like this and we shall call it quits before our time. Today like no other I want to see the familiar of home instead of the strange wilds of a country that has forgotten its heritage. I only hope the days to come will prove me wrong. I look forward to Monmouth and to finally reaching Bath but looking at a map I wonder if we can make it that far, forget the journey to Rome of which we dreamed. Danaide, I think, has finally begun to believe I wasn’t simply sounding off when I told her selling jewelery was not preparation enough.
First day of biking. Alone just the two of us now and absolutely terrified. We woke up late and finished of our packing. Our hosts had made us an enormous English breakfast. We gorged ourselves not too long after waking up. Then we set out. Leaving was far harder than I thought it would be. Our hosts have become surrogate parents to us and leaving was leaving behind everything familiar and safe. We read The Hobbit tonight and tolkien describes Bilbo as half Took and half Baggins one adventurous the other homey. Such a one am I and leaving brought out the Baggins in me in spades. Our journey today can only be described as hard. We traveled up over the slope of the Long Mynd. A road so difficult it was amazing. It was like climbing to clouds. But our descent was pure pleasure, the green hills of England rumpled around us speckled with the white of sheep, the Devil’s Chair looming up at our side. We stopped for a rest in Bishops Castle, at the cathedral, and were treated to the melodius sound of the organist practicing. When we left we were once again faced with an enourmous hill that almost broke us. But I have gained a small insight into the nature of hills, a truer understanding of what a hill really is, than can be gained from inside a car. Our trip down was once again amazing with the castle of Clun looming like a jagged tooth below us. When we finally arrived at Clun it was strangely anticlimactic. I had no idea what to do with myself and would have wandered around aimlessly had we not found a map. We followed it to the hostel, a quaint old mill converted to a travelers rest. It is stone and wood and comfortable and vastly different that I expected. Of course we have a dorm to ourselves, the disease (hoof and mouth) that has ravaged the cattle of Britain has done the same to the travel industry. We found on our arrival here that a few things had not happened as planned most especially my water bottle had broken, filling my backpack with water and drenching my map. But I am tired enough to overlook small problems. Tomorrow we will face the consequences of today and we will decide were to go. I only hope that with experience the fear that knots my belly will diminish.
Day Twelve
Exhausted at the town of Knighton just over the hill from Clun. The pain of yesterdays cycling has hit us hard. We have traveled well les than what we did yesterday. Each step seemed like the last. I only hope we will make todays goal tomorrow.
Our day began inauspiciously at the hostel. The rain was coming down in a gentle mist that would have been beautiful had it not signaled such a wet day. We biked to Clun castle a border fort that protected the welsh marches. Then we biked into the truly unknown. Right out of Clun we hit an enormous hill followed soon after by another. The rain created a beautiful mist that left us and our belongings dripping. Finally our bodies broke down too much to carry us any further and we coasted across the Welch border to this our resting place. Wales, Cymru, the magical land of dragon of Merlin of Arthur. If Knighton is any sample for the rest of the country then I despair for the heirs of the pendragon. It is a filthy town that seems to sport no pride. Coasting in we passed a filthy junkyard that spilled out into the street; further on a rotting couch lay carelessly in an archway. The main hotel was rotting and dilapidated. Strangely the most beautiful structure in town was the visitors center for Offa’s Dyke, Welsh pride in a king who styled himself the first king of England. We have found lodging at an exorbitantly priced hotel, The Red Lion, that my mind wants to call a hovel but my heart, dry at last and no longer beating as though ready to burst, calls paradise. We have broken our budget today. Too many days like this and we shall call it quits before our time. Today like no other I want to see the familiar of home instead of the strange wilds of a country that has forgotten its heritage. I only hope the days to come will prove me wrong. I look forward to Monmouth and to finally reaching Bath but looking at a map I wonder if we can make it that far, forget the journey to Rome of which we dreamed. Danaide, I think, has finally begun to believe I wasn’t simply sounding off when I told her selling jewelery was not preparation enough.
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Well, there's only six or seven to begin with!