Diary and Photos

The tent went away wet again. In the morning it was a case of just get up and get moving. By the time the sun was up enough to dry the tent out, I'd have lost another couple of hours, minimum. The previous couple of days had shown me that I'd be riding for longer than I'd hoped each day, so there was no time to muck about.

As I rode off site I was hoping the little cafe would be open, but it was not to be. From what I'd read in reviews of the site, they did a nice little breakfast there which would have set me up nicely for the day. As I got out onto the main road, I also noticed a pub a few hundred yards from the site- all I'd had the previous night was Super Noodles and some cup a soup, if only I'd asked around and someone had told me about it, perhaps I could have had a decent bit of grub, or at the very least, a decent drop of beer! Ah well, another lesson learned!

I filled the bike with petrol and had scant consolation for my missed breakfast with a wedge of ballast in the form of a pork pie from the service station cold cabinet (nice, but not exactly a hearty breakfast...), then it was onwards and upwards once more.

Portsmouth and Southampton were both busy as hell- it was around rush hour and they were both traffic-heavy, and very slow going. Trying to follow sat-nav directions at the same time as weave through stationary traffic is a skill which takes some learning, but one I was picking up fast. Anyone who's ridden a bike in heavy traffic will know the dangers of half-asleep drivers who change lanes just as you get alongside them, or who insist on driving straight out in front of you at roundabouts- fun!

As I got into the New Forest things got better- the road was open and had a lot less traffic, and although I wasn't going fast, the sunny tree-lined road and general feel good factor of the whole thing took my mind off the ever-present pains in my arse and reminded me what it is that's so great about riding bikes*- of any capacity.

Next it was back to reality with a bump as I hit Bournemouth and Poole and hit more traffic, then another open road blat along to Weymouth and then Lyme Regis. A few miles later I came up against my first big hill. It was steep, and very long, and as I ascended the poor Cub started to struggle. Down into second, then first as the hill got even steeper near the top, the engine screaming blue murder and speeds dropping to about fifteen miles per hour. I stopped in a layby near the top and took this photo:

Steeper than it looks!

The incline looks almost innocuously shalow, but looks are deceiving. A 90cc bike with 230+ of fat bugger on it and a big pile of luggage too, and a hill like that becomes, shall we say... interesting.

The roads along the coast became truly great- small yet flowing. Cub goes mad in Dorset!

Exeter was the usual urban hell, too much traffic on the roads. Torquay was pretty much as i'd imagined it, complete with a few palm trees dotted about the place, though sadly there was no sign of Basil Fawlty. I found myself wondering if the building used as the exterior of Fawlty Towers was actually in the area- if it was, it might have been worth a stop and a photo or two, but as ever time was against me and I wasn't about to hang around and actually ask.

I got in a bit of a tizz as I approached Plymouth- I'd done the whole route for the sat nav by hand, adding waypoints to keep the software from routing me along the roads it thought I should take and to keep me on the roads i wanted to take, and when looking at all the pretty coloured lines on the map, I hadn't realised that the ones I had chosen were occasionally not quite as substantial a road as I had thought. I was convinced I was in the English equivalent of Deliverance country as I went down a tiny tree-lined single track road that meandered through god knows where for several miles.

A shot from the day's travels- lord knows where. Answers on a postcard please. Note cool chalk horse on hill in background.

I was torn between two opposing options, either continue along the road and hope it soon came back out onto a 'real' road pretty damn soon before too much time was lost trundling along (very slowly- it was twisty and every corner could have hidden any type of vehicle in the middle of the road), or I could retrace my steps and backtrack several miles and then try to find another route. I chose the former, and carried on- a few miles later I came out onto a bigger road and got moving again.

About the time i crossed the taymar bridge into Cornwall, the skies went first grey, then black, and for the first time since i had started out, the heavens opened. For about an hour it absolutely pissed it down- there was one roundabout I went round that had a lake-like puddle about a foot deep on it's inner lane that all the traffic was avoiding. I pulled into a service station to get some more fuel, and I caught occasional glances from drivers looking at me as though I were some sort of nutcase (in all fairness, I probably was) as I got back on the bike and rode off into the downpour.

By the time I was approaching my campsite the rain had gone and I was drying out again, and I spent some time on more tiny winding roads trying to find it. A quick enquiry in the local pub set me right, and I got to the site to find reception shut and a note on the door telling me were to pitch up- pitch nine, no less.

A swift recce of pitch nine told me that the slope it was on meant I was either going to go to sleep with all the blood running from my head to my feet or vice versa. As there was only a couple of other tents about, I pitched it it somewhere near number eight- still on a slope, but nothing like the incline of the other. As I pitched up it started to spit with rain and I was convinced I was in for another deluge, but fortunately nothing came of it.

The tent up and all my stuff thrown into it, I postponed my shower, leapt back on the cub and rode back to the pub a couple of miles back down the road. After a chat with a couple of the locals, I had a proper meal- sausage egg and chips if memory serves, and a quick pint, then bought several more bottles of ale and headed back to the campsite.

Once again, I almost missed out on a shower- the note on the door told me they'd give me the code in the morning, but mornings left little time for that sort of thing. I found someone near the shower block and after explaining my situation and the note, they gave me the code, so at least I could get under some warm water and soak away my aches and pains.

There was a very odd man in a camper van on a pitch not far from my tent. As it got dark he sat in his van playing an accordian (quite badly). I spoke to him on a couple of occasions, just a friendly good evening as we met en rouute to the shower block and all I got was a grunt or two in return- miserable old goat. This was not the last time I got this reaction, it has to be said.

Another day, another campsite.

Clean and fresh, my belly full, I polished off my take out ale and went to sleep happy.

* So what is it that's so great about riding motorcycles anyway? There's an old saying: "If you understand, no explanation is necessary. If you don't understand, no explanation is possible". See? Easy.

Next: Day 4

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