Day 6: Bangor to Holyhead

It was all very 1826 this morning.

Partly this was because I cycled across the magnificent Menai Bridge (pic), one of the world’s first suspension jobs.

And also because I’d had no wifi, internet, phone or postal access in my Premier Inn. To communicate with the outside world I’d have needed smoke signals.

Once across, I was on Anglesey, and the last leg of my journey.

NCN8 threads it way across the flat island to Holyhead, but I’d decided to go along the more direct, faster, A5: a Thomas Telford work, like the bridge that I could see behind me (pic).

The first place you come to on the island is Llanfairpwllgwyngyll (pic) – or, as it’s commonly known thanks to a fancifully concocted lengthening by an unknown 19th-century joker, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. There’s nothing official about the name, but plenty of silly people with nothing better to do than show off, such as me, have taken it to their hearts.

The train station joins in the fun, proudly displaying the long version (pic). No trains were stopping this summer because of the pandemic, but when they do, it’s a request stop. If you want to get off here, simply ask the guard to put down at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

The Volvo franchise here also carries the 58-character option, in splendidly deadpan style (pic).

I recall from a previous visit that a dry cleaner used to have the long form on its signboard too, but it seems that’s now gone. The only other place to go for it is the souvenir shop (pic).

There wasn’t much traffic on the A5: the lorries and cars shuttling to or from the ferry terminal take the wider and faster A55 that runs parallel. This was what my morning’s journey looked like (pic).

So, at last, I arrived at the sign for Holyhead. I celebrated by finding some holly (pic).

But it wasn’t quite journey’s end. The town is a bit dreary, little more than a characterless ferry port and cheerless railway station. So I carried on a couple of miles beyond through the hills... (pic)

...to South Stack Lighthouse, a satisfyingly conclusive end to the trip (pic). On this sunny day the coast, with its fine views across the Irish Sea and down the cliffs to the south, was busy with walkers and sightseers.

It’s been a wonderful ride: six days of mostly good weather and always sensational scenery. Welsh hills and valleys have a characteristically rugged feel that’s quite different from England or Scotland, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this hilly Cambrian odyssey from corner to corner. The route deserves its reputation as one of Britain’s very best cycle-touring experiences. Lôn Las Cymru am byth!

Miles today: 32 (53km)
Miles total for route: 220 (350km)
Feet of climb total for route: 16,000 (5,000m)
Days taken: 6
Pairs of gloves lost: ½
Highest point: 1,801 ft (549m), Gospel Pass
No of punctures: ¼ (a very slow one), at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch
Total cost inc all transport, accomm, food and drink: £240
Value: Priceless

Day 1 – Day 2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6

Day 5: Ffestiniog to Bangor

I’d planned a short day. I’d had vague aspirations of stopping off en route to walk up Snowdon, assisted by the rack’n’ruin railway. Unfortunately the train was only running part way up, so I wouldn’t have time for any summit-bagging today.

It was a swoosh down from Ffestiniog to the valley floor (pic) and a quiet B road back up to join the course of the Ffestiniog and West Highland Railways, also restricting services right now.

Eventually I joined the A4085, one of those delightful ‘main roads’ that’s actually not even a B really, often slimming down to singletrack-with-passing-places. It’s fairly flat and slices through some splendid Snowdonian mountainscapes (pic), with fine views of Eryri’s summit itself.

In Beddgelert, surrounded by peaks, the scenery took my breath away. As did the price of a coffee, though it was nice to sit and enjoy a boost in the sunshine.

I couldn’t resist visiting the grave of Gelert (pic), the third canine memorial I’ve visited this summer. The first was of faithful Ruswarp, at Garsdale Station. Next came Greyfriars Bobby, Edinburgh’s mostly apocryphal mutt.

Unlike those, however, Gelert didn’t outlive his master. Quite the reverse. His owner, Prince Llywellyn, came back from hunting one day to find his son’s crib empty and the dog covered in blood. Assuming the dog had savaged the boy, he killed it in rage... only to see his son toddle happily from round the corner, where there lay the dead body of a would-be child-stealing wolf that Gelert had just killed.

Prince L was grief-stricken, and apparently never smiled for the rest of his life. Like the woman in the village shop later on where I bought a pork pie. The story is just a story, of course – similar brave but luckless folk-tale dogs, have been slaughtered in error all over the world. Gelert was no more real than the ‘cream’ on my pot of trifle from that village shop.

I could enjoy the scenery at leisure, because the road was almost devoid of traffic: it was all stuck behind a line-painting lorry just outside Beddgelert.

I got to Caernarfon for a late lunch of fish and chips in the central square (pic).

I was right opposite the castle and statue of David Lloyd George in full orator mode, probably railing against the low-quality cod.

From Caernarfon it was almost all along the Lôn Eifion, a pleasant riverside path-cum-railtrail (pic), to Bangor, where I settled into my Premier Inn with a real feeling of getting away from it all.

That’s because there was no internet and no mobile phone signal, and hence no way of contacting the outside world. To talk to reception, you had to walk there, which wouldn’t have been terribly convenient if, say, there was a mad axeman trying to get into my room.

I had a lucky escape from any crazed samurai by swigging a pint of soulless lager in the resto-bar opposite, in order to use their wifi.

Miles today: 38

Day 1 – Day 2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6

Day 4: Hafren Forest to Ffestiniog

An early start, into the sheepy fields. I climbed laboriously up the mountain road towards Machynlleth past Dylife Gorge (pic).

I was heading towards the highest point on the Lôn Las Cymru after Gospel Pass – 510m above sea level, and usually 100m above bottom of the cloud level.

Indeed, when I did this bit of the LLC in 2000 it was thick, thick cloud. The furthest thing I could see was my shoes.

It was rainy today too, but visibility was OK (pic), and I got a strong impression of the hillscape’s sweep and breadth. I also got a strong impression of wet socks and squelching shoes.

It was a downhill whoop into Machynlleth (pic). I searched for the famous landmark called Y Cloc, but obviously that’s Welsh, so I couldn’t understand what to look for.

I passed through here in 2013 on a bike ride with my chum Tim, and we won the pub quiz in the White Lion. Our prize was two bottles of Bucks Fizz, which we ended up leaving for the cleaner.

From here towards Dolgellau is one of the most splendid and Welsh-feeling stretches of the LLC, on a tiny lane that parallels the main road over the other side of the river through fragrant pine woods. I’ve been here, to pass or to stay at Corris (pic), several times and it’s always been raining.

The slate mine at Aberllefenni (pic) closed in 2003, which was obviously a blow to the local economy, but at least it means you’re not close-passed on narrow roads by impatient mining lorries.

You’re close-passed by builder’s trucks and supermarket delivery vans these days, instead.

The climb through the woods out of Aberllefeni and over the ridge (pic) is one of the toughest climbs on any long-distance Sustrans route.

Nevertheless, I only got off and pushed once.

Though admittedly that was starting at the bottom and ending at the top.

When I did this in 2000, this was a very rough track. It’s now good smooth tarmac, and so I could enjoy the view from the top (pic) knowing there was a nice scoot downhill coming up.

There were rainbows, so I made a wish. When I was little, I wished for a new bike. It never happened. As a teenager, I wished for romance. It never happened. As an adult, I wished for career success. It never happened. Now I’m 60, I wish for a new bike again. I’m a bit of an optimist.

Still, the sun came out as I arrived at my hostel in Ffestiniog. I enjoyed a picnic dinner and glass or two of wine surrounded by glorious Snowdonian mountains from the terrace (pic). A very good day.

Miles today: 53

Day 1 – Day 2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6

Day 3: Llandrindod Wells to Hafren Forest

I had a quick morning spin around Llandrindod Wells’s lake (pic). Locals proudly told me about the new cycle path around its kilometre or so circumference. ‘Cycle path’ sounds grander than it is, which is a solid-line lane marked off from the perimeter road, but it’s wide and pleasant enough.

LW is a Victorian spa town, and amiably feels that way. I could easily picture late-1800s families pleasure-boating here, and penny-farthings jostling for space on the perimeter path with those new-fangled Rover Safety Bicycles. Talking of which...

...My main target for the morning was the National Cycle Museum. What it’s doing in this remote part of mid-Wales is anyone’s guess, and I can’t even guess. The building is impressive: a former motor garage, built in pioneering art-deco style circa 1910 (pic).

And the contents are even more impressive. The handful of rooms on the ground floor are crammed full of bikes, bits and memorabilia of all kinds from the velocipede era to the 1990s (pic). There are unusual Ordinaries, antisocial Sociables, dangerous Safeties: there’s even a bike made out of a bedstead.

It’s a glorious jumble, roughly but approximately chronological. If it looks like it’s done on a budget, with its engagingly amateur information cards, that’s because it is – the friendly staff are volunteers – but I spent two very, very happy hours here.

Indeed, I’d say it’s a bucket list place, somewhere to come before you die (pic).

Last time I cycled the Lôn Las Cymru was in 2000, on a 1980s light-metallic-green Raleigh Record Ace. So I was a little taken aback to see one of the exhibits was, indeed, a 1980s light-metallic-green Raleigh Record Ace (pic), virtually identical to the one I rode. That’s right: my first touring bike is now a museum piece.

I might almost have suspected it was my machine, but it wasn’t, because mine was crushed by a lorry in Southwark in 2002. Don’t worry, I wasn’t riding it. It was locked to a lamppost.

Here’s a MAMIL, 1910-style. I expect people were chuntering even back then about these young tearaways, recklessly FILLING THEIR PIPE as they rode along.

The rest of the day was a long, long succession of glorious views and some of the finest river valley riding in Britain. I approached Rhayader via this railtrail (pic) and bought some snacks for lunch. I couldn’t help singing to myself, to the Blackadder theme tune, ‘Rhayader, Rhayader / My lunch was quite a price / Rhayader, Rhayader / It wasn’t very nice’.

Between there and Llangurig, a tiny lane parallels the main road on the opposite side of the Wye. It’s lovely riding, effectively car-free and with constantly developing views (pic).

Maybe there’s a set of alphabet river rides here, collecting the Dee, Exe and Wye. And maybe Tees? *Mathematical joke warning* And maybe Dee-Exe by Dee-Wye, but that might be too derivative.

Anyway, more delightful back-lanes riding got me to Llanidloes. Here I had a sunny lunch on the green (pic) alongside some socially-distanced other riders doing the LLC. Despite what I said earlier, my lunch was quite nice.

The LLC now took me picturesquely up the upper reaches of the Severn valley (Hafren in Welsh), almost up to the source of the longest river in Britain (pic) – and still hardly any motor traffic.

A final thrilling stretch up and over some moorland and into some woods, and I was at Hafren Forest Bunkhouse, a wonderful little hostel that I had all to myself (pic).

Hostels are being hit hard by the current restrictions, with groups severely limited and dorm beds presenting social distancing problems. (Snoring is now one of the least worrying emissions from fellow dorm users.)

I hope super places like this one pull through.

Miles today: 44

Day 1 – Day 2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6

Day 2: Abergavenny to Llandrindod Wells

I pedalled up from my bargain Premier Inn room to meet Jack – who was riding with me for the day – at his house on the edge of Abergavenny. We picked some apples from his orchard to take with us and scooted along the back lanes up to Gospel Pass, Wales’s highest road at 549m.

His progress was quicker than mine up the long, gradual, scenic ascent (pic). Partly this was because he was travelling lighter. He had a saddlebag with two apples and a choc bar in it, while I had two panniers full of a week’s touring essentials.

Essentials such as four changes of clothes, laptop, phone, camera, chargers, maps, cheese, salami, Aldi jelly babies, Lidl jaffa cakes etc, and mice (only computer ones, I hoped, but given all that food in there, I wouldn’t rule out real ones).

His progress was quicker than mine mainly, though, because I’m slower than everyone else.

We stopped off at Llanthony Priory (pic), which fell into ruin centuries ago, as did the pronunciation of the original Welsh place name once the English got hold of it.

Another place to nose around was Capel y Ffin (pic), near the summit. The tiny, remote church’s intimate interior was charming, and featured an icon that mixed fourth- and twentieth-century imagery. Welsh Orthodox, I suppose.

At the top the scenery suddenly opened out from woodsy greenery into moorland (pic), after which a rather impressive panorama of the Radnorshire Hills abruptly appeared before us.

It was one long whoosh downhill to Hay (pic), which seemed to consist entirely of bookshops, delis and cafes – a rather agreeable state of affairs.

We stocked up on pricey but tasty local cheeses and pork pies for a picnic lunch which we enjoyed on a hilltop beyond Clyro, over the river.

Jack and I are both very experienced cycle tourists and writers, so you wouldn’t catch us going short of water. Well, not unless you’d been on that hilltop. Luckily we found a hidden tap in the churchyard in Bryngwyn just beyond.

Somewhere around Hundred House we parted company, with Jack heading back home to his family, and me carrying on over the final moorland climb (pic) to Llandrindod Wells, where I had a night booked in a room above a pub...

...and where my bike spent the night in the biggest bike shed I’ve ever seen. It was the size of an aircraft hangar.

Miles today: 51

Day 1 – Day 2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6

Day 1: Chepstow to Abergavenny

I’ve done End to Ends of Britain, England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, the Republic of Ireland, even the Isle of Man.

Not Wales though – well, not exactly. I did Cardiff to Holyhead in 2000, and St David’s to Llandudno in 2013, both of them traverses of sorts. That first trip was along the Lôn Las Cymru, a 250-mile odyssey across Wales’s scenic splendour, but back then I saw little except rainclouds and my own sodden feet.

For my 2020 Cambrian alpha-omega, I thought I’d reprise the Lôn Las Cymru – but take the variant beginning in Chepstow instead of Cardiff. This, I decided, has more of an End to End feel. Chepstow to Holyhead; southeast to northwest; bottom right to top left; English border to the ferry gateway to Ireland.

So this morning I got a train from York down to Chepstow. The day promised to be cloudless and sunny, with no forecast rain. Cow meteorologists had no excuse for lying down in the lush, late-summer meadows.

At first I considered starting at the Welsh–English border on the Severn Bridge. But I’ve cycled across it before, and anyway thought Chepstow’s old bridge across the Wye – on the edge of the fine old town, rather than on the edge of the motorway services – would be a more atmospheric way to set off.

So this is where Wales starts, at this lamp post, with the castle ruins in the background (pic). How many Welsh people does it take to change a light bulb? One, probably. You’ll get no tired old racist jokes here. Just tired old non-racist ones.

Anyway, here I was actually in Wales (pic), land of poets, singers and men of renown, and in the exciting new presence of bilingual signs. It’s amusing to see a clumsy, weirdly spelt, unpronounceable chimera of a language – essentially a degraded pidgin, actually – festooning posts and notices. So I was relieved to see there was now the Welsh alternative, too.

Chepstow is a pleasant town, smaller-feeling than I expected, though I still managed to get lost in the one-way system. I briefly admired the castle (pic) and set off into this fabulous, fascinating little land along quiet, lushly rural back lanes.

I stopped at Usk, town of flowers, for a picnic lunch. The central square (pic) had no shade and was a sun-trap, as I found when my packet of twelve jaffa cakes turned into a packet of one long jaffa cake.

More charming, untrafficked back lanes (pic) took me northwest to Abergavenny, where I’d scored a bargain Premier Inn room. I’d done barely thirty miles, but in today’s summery heat, I definitely needed a shower.

Satisfactorily fumigated, I trundled into the centre of town to look around its market streets and independent shops – OK, and its Wetherspoon – and met up with fellow cycle journo Jack Thurston, author of the excellent Lost Lanes books, who now lives here.

We had a pleasant couple of local ales in the Kings Arms in the warm, soft market square (pic). Jack had just come from his Welsh language class, and was mildly impressed by my knowledge of certain phrases and vocabulary in the ancient and poetic language, particularly those involving beer and lavatories.

Miles today: 35

Day 1 – Day 2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6