Word Of Mouse

Here we are in Totnes, Devon. We havesurvived wind, rain and non existant campsites and spirits remain high.

From Leanda's house, we cycled along the lovely renovated cycletrack to Bath, where we stopped for lunch (and were regaled with a selection of Bob Marley hits sung by possibly Britain's worst street musician ever). Then along the canal towpath as far as Radstock, a place which may have been very nice a hundred and fifty years ago, but which lives now in our memories as a kind of bottle filled with angry traffic. We just escaped with our lives, and up the hill collapsed exhausted into a peaceful campsite for the evening.

The following day saw us soaring down the long descent into Wells, a truly beautiful small city where a short left turn off the main road immediately led through the old city wall into a tranquil traffic-free oasis of calm. We admired the cathedral from the outside, then headed on across the flat peatlands towards Glastonbury. It was sad to see the extent to which peat mining is changing this precious and irreplaceable landscape: I tried to console myself with the thought that the huge water filled lakes being created by the bulldozers were themselves turning into valuable wildlife habitat but nevertheless it seems like a profligate waste of something that has taken thousands upon thousands of years to build up.

Glastonbury was impressive, as was the long climb up to the tor, from where we dropped down behind the town to find a welcoming fish and chip shop. Glastonbury is still a haven for mystics, leyline feelers and crystal-and-bead merchants of all kinds. We left feeling mysteriously renewed and revitalized. It could have been the effect of the powerful earth forces running along the leylines and converging on the perfect cone shape of Glastonbury Tor. Or it could have been the effect of a stomach full of fish and chips.

From Glastonbury we went towards Bridgewater for a quick call in to the spiritual home of UK tandemming and a chat with the friendly shop assistants at St John St. Cycles. I saw a badger cross the road in front of us a few miles out of Bridgewater: Ali missed it but then saw it immediately cross back behind us. I have only seen two live badgers in my life, and that was one of them: I usually encounter them on the road in their other IKEA-style flat-pack format.

Bridgewater has singularly little to commend it other than St. John St. Cycles. The promised rain started in earnest as we left. We went on through thickening rain along the canal towpath to Taunton. Our visions of a night of comparative luxury at the Taunton Travellodge, complete with baths and watching Channel 5 TV in bed came to nothing: it was full and we resigned ourselves to another damp night on a campsite (which actually was very pleasant in fact: on old cider orchard with ground bestrewn with apple blossom, rabbits and peacocks).

The following morning, a lull in the rain brought a welcome chance to dry out the tent and we packed up and left Taunton in good spirits. Having done just short of sixty miles the previous day, we set our sites on a much closer campsite, anticipating arriving there soon after lunch. A lovely breezy ride brought us to the campsite, where we found the forbidding notice "No working people or travellers allowed". It was discouraging to find something so close to outright racism flourishing in the heart of Devon: we decided not to stay there on principle (plus we had no food with us, having decided a long time previously that we would not shop at supermarkets), and so we went on, eventually turning up at "Minnows", a campsite near Sampford Peverill. Despite its noisy proximity to the busy A38, this campsite was run by a very friendly and jolly couple who were fascinated by what we were doing and offered us the use of their far meadow away from the rest of the campsite users (which were exclusively composed of caravans and motorhomes). A nearby and well-stocked farm shop provided the ingredients for a tasty evening meal, including fresh local asparagus.

The breeze which had been with us all the previous day stiffened during the night to a full gale from the south west bearing rain in its teeth. We were able to get the tent down in a lull and set off, at the advice of the friendly campsite owner, along the old canal towpath to Tiverton, following the route of National Cycle Route 3. This, incidentally, has been a welcome discovery: all credit to the team at Sustrans that has developed this UK-wide network of cycle routes. Cycle Route 3 runs all the way from Bristol to Plymouth: we were able to follow much of it along quiet lanes and canal towpaths.

This turned out to be our most comedy day so far. Plan A had been to stop at a small campsite near Crediton and there invite Dave and Anna to come and join us for the weekend. When we arrived at the designated spot, there was nothing there apart from a grungy wooden shack with the word "toilet" painted on it, and some fishermen. It looked even grimmer than Crediton. Despite generalized tiredness brought on by the hilly route we had taken from Tiverton, we pressed on. Ali spotted on the map what looked an ideal little campsite snugged in at the edge of a wood in a steep valley, so we beat our way over the hills to it. By now it was drizzling in earnest and generally gloomy. We dropped down a steep descent into the idyllic little valley, to discover that it was no longer a public campsite, instead being a little enclave of Swiss chalet-style buildings surrounded by unfriendly notices about trespassing (and no doubt owned by rich Tory-voting SUV-driving London merchant banker types). There was no option but to press on, but luckily our trusty map showed a number of options further down the road. One by one these too proved to be duds, either completely non-existant, not open to the public, or otherwise unsuitable. Eventually we reached Bovey Tracey, and after about 55 miles up, down and though rural Devon lanes (but mostly up) we were ready to pay whatever it took to find somewhere to sleep. The Old Thatched Inn at Bovey Tracey had a room spare. Great. And even better they were still serving food- just. We showered in record time and made it to the bar. I had asked whether there was somewhere to store the bike around the back of the inn- fine they said, no problem. So after supper I fetched Bramble and wheeled her round though the shabby and untidy yard around the back of the pub, looking for somewhere to chain her to. By now it was almost dark: I made out a post on the wall, which appeared to be covered with some slimy substance. Nevertheless I decided to hook the chain round it and set the padlock. I had been aware of an unusual texture to the ground on which I was standing, and a gathering closeness of atmosphere. I glanced down, Ali too. "What the...?" The ground was covered, literally, with hundreds of ENORMOUS mounds which the evidence of our noses told us could only be dog turds, of an impressively large calibre. I recoiled in horror, almost slipping over. By now we were both laughing, albeit with an alarming overtone of hysteria. The owner of the pub overheard us and appeared in the doorway. "All right my loves?" We pointed out that his yard was covered in dog shit. "Oh yes, we let it build up. We clear it out every Monday." We washed off my shoes as best we could and made it back to our nylon-bedspread-covered bed (complete with its rubber incontinence undersheet) and collapsed.

The following day was Saturday and we were both ready for some rest away from the bike. We made a short run to a campsite just off the A38 north of Ashburton, which we had chosen not for its scenic nature (it wasn't) but because of its impressive pink-painted laundry facilities. Ali used it to wash all our stuff, which because we included our green silk sleeping bag liner, became in consequence all colour-coordinated in various attractive shades of green. The best bit of the weekend, though, was the chance to catch up with various friends, firstly Dave and Anna Gundrey plus Kevin and Jane, who took us to Buckfastlegh Abbey for a cream tea, and secondly with my friends Tim and Julie, with whom we shared a cheerful meal at a very good Indian restaurant in Newton Abbot.

We are now on the way to visit Kay, Alis grandmother, who lives in Stoke Gabriel near Totnes, and has very kindly offered a bed and a garage for the night to dry out the tent, then it will be on to plymouth tomorrow. Ali dreads the channel crossing, which could be a bit choppy....

Ali here we arein abt phone box with a poor space bar so will write more when we find internet cafe. getting new muscles. have met various friends en route sawDave and Anna for cream tea and Kevin and Jane onthe way to costa rica and tim and Julie 4 a curry. mmmmm better go b4 time isup...

now were in the Libraray and teh keyboard works but it doesn't make my typing any better and we still only have a few minutes!

so what to say - we've met soem lovely people and some that are full of 'helpful' advice and others that can't resist the tandem jokes - 'she's not peddaling on the back' 'you need some fuel for that', 'you need and engine on that'. my how we laughed as the rain ran down our backs and we puffed our way up the Devon lanes.

great to see all the comments on the site. it's a real lift. thanks everyone