Saturday 7th April 2018
Ouch.
Woke up after 9 (quite late for me), not exactly fresh as a daisy. I KNEW that hummus stuff was trouble..
The other issue was that Gags & Chris were planning to come down with me to the town of Abergavenny in their camper van, show me around a bit, with a view to them stopping overnight after I headed onwards. Understandably they were not too enthused about the camping idea now the weather had turned.
By the time copious brews and some poached eggs were consumed the rain had virtually stopped. The plan was now for them to come down for a bit to show me around, then head back home when I ventured onwards. So, after wrapping up as watertight as possible, I said goodbye to Hoarwithy around midday and followed them in their car. Within minutes my shiny scooter, cleaned 2 days previously, was covered in muck from the waterlogged, manure splattered roads. I didn't bother with satnav, just decided to tail them all the way. This proved to be the source of a little stress as Gareth went on the fastest route - the A40, which felt to all intents and purposes like a two lane motorway to me. He likes to stay at the speed limit but will ruthlessly overtake vehicles that are any slower. This made tailgating him, in the wet, a challenge for my tentative riding - although the Vespa's 300cc engine managed it.
There is a sign along this road, just before Monmouth, which has special significance in our family. My Dad used to stop there for photo opportunities if, for instance, it was a grandchild's first trip to the Land of Our Fathers. As it would nowadays be extremely dangerous to stop, I had to make do with a little air punch on passing. Felt good to be across the border at last!
The emergency wet wipes I keep in the glove box were swiftly deployed in trying to clean up the offence, but to paraphrase Billy Connolly, 'they weren't so much absorbing, as re-distributing'. I had Gareth and Christine's giggles to contend with too. Luckily I had packed a spare pair of gloves and fleecy snood thing under the saddle, so I decided to bag up the soiled accessories and use the spares until I could get to a washing machine. Could it be interpreted as a portent of doom, that perfectly aimed avian evacuation?
Parked and cleaned up, it was off around Abergavenny for an hour or two, just checking out the market, the streets, and the castle with my guides. This included a quick stop at Boots to get some much needed gel earplugs for the rest of my trip. My sister Liz (an experienced, proper long distance touring motorcyclist) had tried to warn me about this, I hadn't listened, but as usual she was right - the wind noise at high speeds for prolonged periods was starting to become a worry.
A very pleasant little town, and one which Gags & Chris like so much, they have their eye on moving there eventually. It's surrounded by three small mountains, the splendidly named Skirrid, Blorenge and Sugar Loaf, all of which loom over the town and surrounding River Usk valley in a way which is just this side of non-threatening.
As the afternoon wore on, much discussion was had about which way to continue down to The Valleys. By 3pm it was dry, very mild (mid teens) and still. The leaden, overcast cloud of the morning now seemed a touch whiter, and higher up. So I decided I would brave the road across The Beacons. It was a sad goodbye to bro and sis in law, with lots of gratitude for all their hospitality, packed in to such a brief time.
Earplugs in and waterproofs on, as I started up the scoot I could hear the roar of overly loud exhausts from the biker's cafe, and clouds of smoke billowing above it. The Wild Ones were off, and I didn't much fancy getting stuck in their convoy if they were headed my way too. So I took advantage to get some petrol. I don't think I came across a single motorcyclist for the rest of the day's journey. The route took me in almost the opposite direction for a while, up to the town of Brecon, so that I could plunge due south across the middle of the National Park. I had visions of little steep, winding tree lined roads for some reason, but it was the exact opposite - a fairly straight and fast road, very 'open' and exposed in places, with a long gradual gradient in and out, and some beautiful parking spots to take in the view of waterfalls and mountains.
The tops of the Beacons themselves were obscured by clouds, but maybe this added to the mysterious, peaceful atmosphere of the landscape. Quite a place.
Despite the less than ideal conditions (it rained a little, on and off), there were plenty of hikers striding up into the mists. Given more time and less luggage, I would have gladly followed them.
Despite the frequent stops to take in the surroundings, The Brecon Beacons were soon coming to an end, and I was heading down past Merthyr Tydfil into the slightly more familiar territory of The Valleys. Those that are acquainted with the area will know that there are a series of rivers running more or less parallel to each other which start in the area of The Beacons and work their way to the sea on the south east coast of Wales. One such valley, that of the River Cynon, is where my father's side of the family hail from, around the town of Aberdare. When planning my trip it seemed obvious to pay a visit at first, but my own family have been down to see our relatives so few times in recent years that I wanted to make sure that when I next visited, it would be with wife and kids in tow.
Now, these valleys are hard to 'jump' east/west via road, with access to most of them from the north provided by the 'Heads of The Valleys' road which connects them all up. Most that is, except the one where Lloyd and Delyth lived - the Garw valley. And they lived at the very northernmost end of this valley in Blaengarw... So the satnav took me ever south through Pontypridd (Tom Jones's birthplace) across The Rhondda valley only to go back on myself, north up the Garw. Across The Rhondda was a comfortingly familiar landscape of ominous, rounded mountains flanked by steep, densely populated terraced streets. Perhaps it was in the DNA, but the two places I have lived for any length of time, The Black Country and Stoke on Trent, have a somewhat similar hilly and industrial aspect, although far less spectacular.
The couple of times I stopped to take photos I got the legendary Valleys friendliness/nosiness from locals. I started to feel quite guilty about being so close to my Auntie's and not making a detour to see her - but I was expected in Blaengarw and one thing I know is that if I visit Aberdare it won't be a swift cup of tea and off again! It would have to wait until I could do it properly. Sorry Aunty x.
As I got nearer my destination the hills if anything got more striking, and laced with wisps of stray cloud. And there, at just after 6pm, I was at the end of the road, at my destination.
An ever warm cwtch from Del & Loyd, an excitable reception from their two dogs Missy and Moe, and a very indulgent evening of perfect steak & home made chips, White Russians and Belgian beers, was to ensue. Lots of catching up of course. It was very nice to see them - and I had a whole lazy Sunday to spend with them tomorrow too.
(Click here for the next part...)
