August 19, 2011
He touck up with the wrang woo-man so he did!
With a new bottom-bracket fitted Is looking forward to a trouble free day's cycling. What could possibly go wrong now? The sun shone in Bath in a clear blue sky this morning and it was a beautiful day to be starting off. However riding up the long hill out of the city the chain was slipping as before. I couldn't quite understand it at first, everything now was near new as I'd replaced the chain-rings, chain and cassette before leaving home; but then, I realise on looking closer, that the chain wasn't slipping in the same way, it was skipping between sprockets, the rear derailleur was out off sync, not lining up with the sprocket, and it was easy to made an adjustment so the chain ran smoothly thereafter.
It seems all the roads are busy no matter which route I choose. The road south of Bath was a steady flow of cars and commercial vehicles on a narrow one lane each way road where I rode precariously tight to the edge while many cars and vans skimmed past too close for comfort. The road past through many villages where there were traffic islands in the middle of the road supposedly as a traffic calming measure. Many times however on reaching and passing along the narrower road between these islands and the curb, what should come but a bus, or other big vehicle that didn't slow-down while proceeding to swing in and squeeze past the island on the outside forcing me even tighter into the edge on the inside.
I turned off on the first possible minor road, a quiet road, north of Shepton Mallet a place like others past through that had true West Country names; names like Peasedown Saint John, Radstoke and Midsomer, which were all small circles on the map and little places in reality. A place called "Wells";was a shock however, marked on the map by a little circle like the others, but which actually turned out to be a city when I'd gotten that far. It had a cathedral, was full of overseas tourists and had a quaint Old English charm in its town-centre. A worthy place to reach at lunchtime when I treated myself to a Cornish Pastie in a bakery-cafe reputed to make the best Cornish Pasties. I don't know about that. They were dear at four pounds eighty each which is why I had only one.
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Amongst the Japanese, American, Continental and English tourists in the street by the green after lunch, I spotted a cyclist, but, I could tell that he had spotted me first as he was looking my way when I first noticed him. I pushed my bike over to where He was standing by his racing bike. "So whir you cycle frum" he said in a West Country accent while looking down at my heavily leaden trailer. I told him and said Is cycling to Spain. He told me that although he was new to cycling, he was looking for a challenge; that most people cycle "Lands End to John a Groats" but he wanted to do something different, so was planing to cycle from the most western point in Britain to the most eastern. He would be starting on the west coast of Scotland and finish on the coast of East Anglia covering much the same distance as anyone cycling from south to north.
In a shop where I was buying a post card of the nearby "Cheddar Gorge". The lady behind the counter said as I paid, "have you cycled that way"."No no, I may cycle that way though" I replied, asking is it a good way to go. She answered that personally she'd cycle via Glastonbury and Street (the alternative route) as it is much flatter. I don't know why I asked as usually a non-cyclist's view isn't worth much. I followed her advice anyway and ended up on a busy road again leaving Wells whereas on reflection the road via the Cheddar Gorge would probably have been a much quieter road hills notwithstanding.
It strikes me that people in the North are friendlier; they're friendly here too but it's a little cooler. The language too has changed significantly from North to South. In the bike-shop a few days ago in Hereford, a middle aged lady asked me how far a day I cycle; and when I said, she remarked taken aback "gosh, you are brave!". And the bike-shop proprietary said "blimey" when I told him where Is cycling to. And this morning, the police and fire-brigade had closed the road because a car had caught fire and burnt causing a long queue of traffic to build up. Is able to pass though. A woman far back in the queue as Is coming along stuck her head out of a car-window asked, "excuse me, what ever is the delay?".
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In the afternoon, I continued cycling on busy roads through Glastonbury where along-the-way somewhere I picked up a cycle-path but it came to an end in Street. Is luck then to find a minor road alternative west to Bridgewater, beyond which there was yet another cycle-path out of town along side the busy A road west, but, it was shortly to come to an abrupt end. I stood disappointed and nervous then as the only way ahead was to take my chances with the busy Friday afternoon traffic.
The cars on the road where predominately holiday-makers driving as fast as possible from London to some West Country holiday resort. I was after a few miles becoming indifferent to them flying past without slowing or giving me much space. I would soon be getting off this road anyway as it was five-ish now and I'd be finding a place to camp soon. There wasn't looking to be many protencial wild-campsites though. I scouted for a place along right-of-way paths on two occasions, but on both, there wasn't any place big enough for my tent. A little later however I saw a sign for a "Mill Farm Camping". I made a turnoff down the roadway indicated on the sign. When I got there it was a massive place. There were swimming-pools and an amusement park. It was full of families, lots of children and noise. And then I saw the price for a tent listed. I would be paying twenty-eight pounds, and that was just for a space to put the tent, if I needed electricity to charge batteries for example it would cost me extra. It seemed a privileged place to camp at that price.
Back on the road and looking ahead I saw wooded hills. I would at last find a free campsite. I cycled off the main road uphill, a narrow little used road along the farmland-edge of woodland sloping up the hillside, and then turned up a narrower grassy right-of-way laneway with high leafy hedgerows either side. I'd to get off and push the bike further uphill up to a hilltop where the lane widened at the confluence of two pathways. I got the tent out and soon had it up tight under the hedge on one side of the wide laneway, a little from a style into a field where the right-of-way path continued down the field to the bottom of the hill and the trail through the grass could be seen rising up across a steep grassy field opposite, thither to the wooded hilltop.
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I was reading my book outside the tent making use of the last daylight. The sun had just set and everything was a dark silhouette against the orange western horizon. I took a fright and my heart was in my mouth for a moment as a dark figure appeared in the shadows outside the style.
A man stepped forth and climbed over the style. He was a young man about forty, tall and well built. He said this is the best time of the day for a walk just around sunset. And he looked at me and with a knowing grin said "you should be okay camping here. Yes this is the best place. We used to come up here when we whir young, I've always come up here". He pointed then at the hillside opposite saying "A man was hung on that there hill" He proceeded to tell me the story of John Wolton, a wood charcoal burner, hung in 1798 for the murder of his common law wife.
He lived down yonder see where the lane goes.
He made his living from cutting wood to burn and sell as charcoal.
But he touck up with the wrang woo-man so he did!
One Summer evening when he and her walked along this lane an argument broke out.
An oowful argument. No one knows why. The outcome twas he killed her stone died.
Nextday he was discovered hiding and taken away to the County Goal.
He was found guilty coarse. And on the day taken back here and given a last sup a ale in The Plough public house, before he was taken up the hill to the prepared scaffold and hung.
The hill is nowadays still called Giblet Hill.
I considered it maybe a scare tale when he bade me goodnight walking on along the lane and disappearing into the shadows of failing light as dusk became night. I heard the call of an animal somewhere and there was an owl hooting nearby The wind then rose and all that could be heard thereafter was the wind howling in the treetops through the night until I slept.
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