To call something the "best" you must have some constant to measure it against.
It could be distance, speed, duration or some other figure but I think of it as being the
one I enjoyed the most. It was during a trip I made to England in the fall of 1996. I was
traveling light and didn't take my bike along. Fortunately a friend there was able to
borrow one for me to use.
It wasn't long, just five days. I didn't ride far, perhaps 175 miles and speed didn't even
enter into the equation. In fact, the only destination I had was back in Bath in five
days. Of course, I did have a few things I wanted to see like Avebury, Stonehenge and the
famous white horses carved into hillsides, but aside from that, it was just the road (or
trail) in front of me and what I might come across. I was out to discover rural England.
With no timetable, no destination and no idea where the day might end, I got it off to a
good start by stopping to share a candy bar with a man fishing from the towpath along the
Kennet and Avon Canal. He had the strangest rig I'd ever seen; a tapered fiberglass pole
about 12 feet long, but a line no more than three feet long. He would do a hand over hand
bit as he poked the pole out toward the middle of the canal, then he would lower the
baited hook into the water. It didn't have a bobber or anything like that, he just watched
for the tip of the pole to dip slightly. Then with a quick flip he'd set the hook and lift
a fish about the size of the palm of your hand but no more than half an inch thick
flopping and gyrating out of the water. He'd reel in his pole hand over hand and add his
catch to those already in a pail. I saw several other people fishing the same way. Later
that day when I stopped for lunch at a pub which appeared to serve mostly people living on
converted longboats on the canal, that was their special. The lady said they were some
sort of perch and thick as flies in the canal. She said they bought them fresh from the
locals each day.
I was more or less bound for Avebury and its stone circles but was often sidetracked by
interesting things to visit and photograph. The map I had been sent by the British Tourist
Bureau showed perhaps one out of every ten roads and was almost useless unless you were in
an car and following the main highways. I was navigating mostly by asking people I came to
along the way, which turned out to be less than accurate because they always kept pointing
me ahead on the towpath. The day was waning when I turned off the towpath to a pub in town
with the odd name of Bagshot. He informed me that I was past where I was supposed to turn
by about 15 miles and the nearest I could find a place to stay was three miles away in
Hungerford. He also recommended a B&B and called to be sure she had a room.
The lady with the B&B was very nice but quite a talker. Her husband had died four
years before and she let a couple rooms to supplement the monthly stipend she got from the
government. She said that was the only way she could afford to keep the rather large (by
British standards) house. It was somewhat out in the country on about two acres with a
barn and several out buildings. She told me that she had gotten rid of their two horses
after her husband died. A couple from Sweden had rented the other bedroom for six months
while he was there on business but had gone home for a few days.
The way she went at talking would make one thing she hadn't said a word since the day she
laid her husband to rest and was trying to catch up. I found that her husband was from
Chicago and they had met while he was stationed there during World War Two. He returned
after the war and they were married. I was still suffering from jet lag and was having a
bit of a sinking spell by about 9:00PM, so I finally had to beg off on her endless stories
and head for bed.
It was barely light outside when I was awaken by the sounds and aromas of cooking. She
laid on a breakfast to feed a harvest crew. If it could be considered as being breakfast
fare, it was on my plate. At the slightest indication that I was about to finish
something, she would bound to her feet to replenish my plate. When I could hold no more,
she said, "My husband was a big eater and I thought all you Yanks were." As I
was about to ride away, she handed me a bag containing enough sandwiches, cheese and fruit
to carry me through the day.
I followed a road along the River Kennet ten miles to Marlborough where I found two things
I really needed, some hot coffee and a tourist information office where I could get some
good maps.
With Landranger Series maps, finding where I was going was easy. They even show trails in
addition to all roads. I was riding a MTB, so it was right at home on the trails which are
kept open to the public by rule of some queen a few hundred years ago.
Stonehenge is by far the best known of all the stone circles in England but does not hold
a candle to Avebury and the surrounding area. If a person has time for only one such
historical site, then it should be Avebury. There is no charge for visiting there and
since most of the land is National Trust, you can camp just about anyplace you like. While
roaming through the stone monoliths, I came across a strange man with long, flowing white
hair and dressed in even stranger clothing. He told me that he was reincarnated from the
people who built the place. However, since he was wearing blue jeans and hiking shoes
under the robe, it was hard to take him at face value. My main regret is that I didn't
spend more time there.
I did stop by Stonehenge, where the number of tour busses always equals the number of
stones in the circle. A bus would stop, the passengers would alight in a run, shoot some
photos and were back on the bus bound for the next stop. I shot a few pix through the
chain link fence instead of paying about ten pounds to walk through a tunnel and get only
slightly closer. They have the place fenced off to keep the goonies, goblins and goths
away. Had I known what I do now, I would have spent that day in a far more productive way.
I was riding along a trail across the Salisbury Plain, mostly used by hikers, headed for a
town indicated on the map as having lodging when I came upon a camping barn. It was sort
of a very rustic hostel. Just as the name implies, it was a barn where you could camp in
the loft. There were about ten army-type cots and a community toilet and shower downstairs
in the corner of the barn. I didn't find it the first try because it was hidden behind
some sort of hay making machine that looked like it had been around since Roman times. The
price was a mere three pounds if you had your own sleeping bag. If not they would rent you
a sleeping sack, pillow and a feather filled cover for another couple pounds.
There was one other cyclist beside myself and five hikers; three women and four men. About
the only concession to modesty was to look the other way when someone was undressed.
The lady of the house had already told the early arrivals that lamb stew was on that
night. It was delicious, especially with chunks of home made bread we ripped off big,
round loaves to sop up the gravy. Most of my roomies were making breakfast of some sort
the next morning but having nothing to fix or cook with, I rode four or five miles to the
next town where I found a restaurant.
I wandered into the interesting town of Shaftsbury where the old cobblestone main street
climbs a steep hill to the city square but no cars are allowed on it. I was visiting the
Abbey and found a rare, wartime first edition of John Steinbeck's "Cannery Row"
for sale in their used bookstore. It cost 50 pence. The back of the dust jacket has this
message, "This book, like all books, is a symbol of the liberty and the freedom for
which we fight. You, as a reader of books, can do your share in the desperate battle to
protect those liberties -- Buy War Bonds" It was published in January of 1945 and I
would guess that it had been sent to someone serving there during the war and he left it
when he returned to the US.
Along the way I came across a convention of antique London double-decker bus enthusiasts.
Most of the buses had been restored to look like the day they went into service. The
oldest one had been made in 1926, two years before I was born. There were a couple
booksellers there and it's amazing how many books are available on just that one subject.
As I rode through a small town, I noticed an interesting old British Tudor style building
with a sign that announced, "The George Inn Wadworth." When I inquired about
price, they told me they had one single they could let me have for sixteen pounds but the
bath was downstairs. It turned out to be a tiny carrel at the top of a steep stairway no
more than two feet wide. It was barely large enough for a cot with room to swing your feet
out onto the floor. No way could I get my bike up there so I locked it to a support pole
on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Later my friend told me that was where the
movie, "Tom Jones" was filmed. I rented the video when I got home and recognized
nearly every detail. I ate in the same place where they filmed the famous seduction scene
over dinner. I found it odd that there was no mention anywhere about it having been used
for a movie.
A shadow passed over me as I was riding the next day and I looked up to see a glider
overhead. I spotted another one being winch launched from atop a nearby ridge. Being a
longtime soaring pilot, this was something I just had to stop for. After I introduced
myself, they took me in like a long lost relative. The fraternity of soaring pilots is a
close knit bunch, no matter where you go. I spent that night on a cot beneath the tilted
wings of sailplanes in the hangar and had dinner with them at their monthly cookout.
The wind changed and low clouds began to roll in the next day and by the middle of the
afternoon, a spattering of drizzle had begun to fall. I stopped by a pub to ask directions
to the nearest place to stay. He made a couple calls only to find that one B&B was
filled and the people who owned the other were out of town. Then he called the owner of a
caravan (travel trailer) parked behind the pub to get permission for me to stay in it. It
was rather small, just room for a bed, a small table and a couple chairs but no bathroom.
There was an ice box and small gas burner for cooking, not that I wanted to do any. But
especially, it was clean, dry and free.
The drizzle had turned to a steady rain the next morning and the "tele" was
saying it would last for a while. I was facing about 25 wet miles to Bath on a road with
more traffic than I would like even on a nice day. Someone suggested that I catch the
train at a stop less than a mile away. The ticket agent told me where to stand on the
platform and sure enough, the car with the door marked with the decal of a bicycle stopped
right in front of me.
I firmly believe that true adventure lies not at travel's end but during the journey
itself. Most of us seem to have grown up with the idea that to travel, we must be going
someplace and the destination takes precedence over anything that might be found in
getting there.
See An Excellent Adventure for other details and some pictures of this tour.
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