Thursday 02 July 2009 - Craven Arms to Chepstow

Craven Arms - Ludlow - Leominster - Hereford - Monmouth - Chepstow

Breakfast lived up to expectations and included Sally’s home made strawberry jam and marmalade. As we left the ancient courtyard, Sally scolded her truculent children while her husband Edward drove off in his tractor to do whatever it is that farmers do.
We trundled down the track to the A49 where we turned right and headed back through Craven Arms towards Ludlow. Hereabouts I was disconcerted to see a sign directing heavy vehicles to this very road, and I was duly tortured by HGVs for the next forty miles.
By the time we had passed Ludlow, the morning was already hot and I was pleased to find Paul waiting for me with a cup of tea at a café in a lay-by at the top of a long hill. As we approached Leominster, a woman leaned out of the nearside window of a passing car and pointed angrily at the cycle path running alongside the road. We’d actually only just seen the unsigned path, which had been hitherto hidden by bushes, and it was raised up on a high kerb which meant we would have had to stop in a stream of heavy traffic in order to get on to it.
Leominster was followed by another lengthy stretch of the A49, fairly flat apart from a rise over the shoulder of Dinmore Hill, until we reached Hereford. The A49 runs through the centre of the city, unlike Ludlow and Leominster which are bypassed, and we stopped for lunch at a pub on the northern outskirts, finishing our meal with a chocolate brownie sundae which was fairly disgusting due to the low quality of the ice cream. We continued through the city, stopping to photograph the impressive cathedral, and after a few miles we finally escaped from the A49 on to the A466 at King’s Thorn.
The A466 was much quieter and hillier than the A49. We stopped at St Weonards for an ice cream, then had a sharp descent and ascent through Llancloudy, whose hybrid Welsh/English name reflects its proximity to the border.
We crossed the border in the hills north of Monmouth and then freewheeled down into the town, crossing the A40 and the River Wye to enter the wooded Wye Valley. The A466 now follows a level course by the east side of the river and is shaded by trees for much of the way, making for very pleasant cycling. We stopped at Redbrook to buy a cold drink, as the water in our bottles had become unappetisingly warm.
At this point, the Welsh border comes across from the east and runs down the centre of the Wye all the way to the Severn. This meant that we were in Gloucestershire for a while until the road crossed over to the west bank of the river at a narrow bridge controlled by traffic lights.
It was a scenic setting and a good photo opportunity, so Paul stopped by the lights while I walked up to the centre of the bridge, and we both got out our cameras and began pointing and clicking. Paul walked up to join me, and as we stood talking a car driver sounded his horn as he drove past. We didn’t know why, and assumed that he must have been the type of motorist who gets annoyed by the perks enjoyed by cyclists which are not available to motorists, such as the option of “jumping” traffic lights by getting off and pushing.
We got ready to set off again, and Paul reached for his cycling glasses, for which he had paid around £40 and had worn throughout the trip. They weren’t where he expected them to be on the back of his bike. Then the penny dropped and he realised they must have fallen off while he was pushing his bike across the bridge. He found the ill-fated spectacles lying in the road, mangled almost beyond recognition and certainly beyond repair. The motorist had merely been trying to warn him.
Paul cursed his misfortune at first, but soon saw the funny side and photographed the ex-glasses on the edge of the Bridge over the River Wye, before consigning them to a watery grave on the border between England and Wales. Unexpectedly they sank without trace, including the lenses which had become separate components but were intact, validating the manufacturer’s claim that they were unbreakable.
On the other side of the river, the road surmounted a rise to the village of Llandogo, and as we climbed we felt the first spots of rain since the Dornoch Firth. The rain felt soft and luxurious, coming as it did towards the end of another long hot day. By the time we reached Tintern, with its ruined but spectacular Abbey, the rain had ceased and the sun shone once more.
After Tintern, the Wye follows a serpentine course to Chepstow, and the road leaves the river and climbs up into the hills. I hadn’t expected this sting in the tail, and the ascent seemed interminable until at last we reached St Arvans and coasted down past Chepstow Racecourse and into the town.
We found our B&B easily enough and checked in. Its name, First Hurdle, indicated that it was probably popular with racegoers, and the service, while friendly and professional, seemed slightly impersonal as it was a business establishment rather than a family home. We were greeted with a cool drink, but on the other hand full payment was demanded on arrival. Presumably it’s not unknown for people to have rather poor weekends at the races and then do runners without paying their bills.
Having showered and changed, we went out and enjoyed perfectly cooked sea bass and a couple of beers at a nearby pub. This was my first visit to this interesting town, and I went for a stroll later in the evening, getting lost in its labyrinth of narrow streets and taking photographs of the castle, the oldest stone fortification in Britain, started in 1067 as part of Bill the Conk’s strategic vision for his newly purloined realm.