Friday 03 July 2009 - Chepstow to Glastonbury

Chepstow - Bristol - Farrington Gurney - Wells - Glastonbury

Our exit road, the A48, carries constant heavy traffic to the M48, and this combined with the steep Hardwick Hill out of town was just too much to face first thing in the morning, so we pushed our bikes up this short section before turning on to the A466 link road to the Severn Bridge and stopping at a filling station. Paul wanted to replace his late lamented glasses, and we needed an A-Z before attempting to find our way through Bristol. The shop sold neither, so we continued ahead, soon picking up the cycle path which leads on to and over the bridge, crossing the Wye and therefore the border with England, before passing over the wide expanse of the Severn. Half way along we stopped to take photographs and noticed the motion of the bridge as soon as we got off our bikes.
At the English bank of the river, we came down from the bridge to a roundabout at the junction with the A403, where we met a motorcyclist who needed to replace a fuse but couldn’t because he didn’t have the correct Allen key to remove the cover. He was an employee of a dealership and the toolkit was incomplete. Paul lent him the necessary tool from his kit, and once he was sorted we set off west along the A403, turning off at Northwick on to the B4055, which led us over the M4 and through Pilning, Easter Compton and Catbrain. Disappointingly, the name of the latter village is unconnected with cats or brains, being derived from Middle English “cattes brazen”, a reference to the local soil type.
We then passed under the M5, after which we were on the A4018 in the outskirts of Bristol and the need for an A-Z became pressing. I darted across the four lanes of the busy dual carriageway to obtain one from a filling station, after which we could hardly get lost. Making frequent reference to our map, we successfully found our way to the city centre and stopped at a café for lunch.
The centre of Bristol had a pleasantly laid back atmosphere, and abounded with interesting architecture both ancient and modern. Unfortunately however, the only bike shop we came across didn’t sell cycling glasses, so Paul had to remove squashed flies from under his eyelids for a few more miles.
Our A-Z guided us towards the A37 which took us out of the city to the final suburb of Whitchurch. Bristol is very hilly, due to the rivers Avon and Frome slicing through its limestone geology, and the last few miles had consequently been hard work. We stopped at a pub for a cold drink, although the weather had cooled to a pleasantly warm level rather than being oppressively hot, so we weren’t as dehydrated as we had been over the past couple of days.
Not long after the last vestige of the city disappeared behind us, we hit the Mendips. The first hill was steeper than I expected, and my chain came off at a most inconvenient spot on a busy stretch of road with absolutely nothing to lean my bike against. We continued up and down through Pensford, where Paul finally obtained replacement glasses, and Farrington Gurney where we took the A39 to Chewton Mendip. Here, on rounding a bend out of the village, we were presented with a startlingly welcome panorama. We had reached the edge of the Mendips and the Somerset Levels lay spread out before us, the flat landscape punctuated by an unmistakeable conical hill surmounted by a tower. Glastonbury Tor was about seven miles away.
Our toil was now rewarded with a four mile coast down to Wells, dominated by its tremendous cathedral. We stopped for a coffee in the centre of the little city and sat relaxing in the late afternoon sun, content in the knowledge that we had only a few more flat miles to go. Those miles turned out to be quite difficult, as the A39 was rather narrow and had suddenly become very busy. A cheeky little boy shouted something indecipherable at both Paul and me as his dad waited for a clear spot to overtake us.
We reached Glastonbury before too long, and despite a bit of faffing about finding the place, we were soon ensconced in our B&B, where our room was on the ground floor for once. We wandered into town an hour or so later and immediately fell under the spell of Glastonbury. It really is different. I’ve never been anywhere else quite like it, although its peaceful aura reminds me strangely of Iona. Nearly all the shops are alternative to some degree and a considerable proportion of the local population seem to be hippies of various generations. We ate a fine lentil biryani at a vegetarian restaurant where all the staff gave the impression of being stoned, and then repaired to the ancient Queen’s Head where I sampled some real farmhouse cider, the like of which I hadn’t tasted for many a year. It was smooth and intensely refreshing, so I downed it with great relish and felt the alcohol hit as I stood at the bar ordering my second pint. The strength wasn’t specified, but I guessed it was considerably more than 5% and called it a day after two pints.
We made our way back to our lodgings and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell into a deep sleep.