Morning came all too quickly, but for the first time we were able to enjoy some of the benefits of preparing our own breakfast – lying in bed whilst others had to get up, for example. Our plans had allowed us a second night at Staunton and consequently a whole day to tour the region with un-laden cycles, so when Hostel Chores had been completed we set off to follow the river eastwards to Preston-on-Wye.

To our disappointment there appeared to be no riverside spots suitably public for a brew-up. In time, thoughts of coffee were surpassed by a desire for something a little more satisfying, but just when all hopes of dinner seemed lost we stumbled across a friendly Inn at Tillington which supplied us with all the necessary victuals.

The afternoon brought yet higher temperatures and, as none of us felt too energetic, we contented ourselves with traversing the six miles to Weobley before tea. At this juncture we made a disastrous mistake. Seeing a long, shady hedge inside a soft, grassy field, we did what any other cyclist would have done in such weather – transported everything over the gate and laid out out tea. Soon after lighting the stove however we got the uneasy feeling that we were not alone, and within seconds two friendly but inquisitive young horses had invited themselves to the party! Frantically we attempted to rescue the goodies whilst at the same time trying to avoid being trampled on. Not to be outdone, the creatures turned their attention to our waterproofs and, when we were finally over the fence and feeling safe, they started on the bike! It took several sugar lumps to persuade them to go away, but eventually we were left to finish our tea in peace.

(Michael Jones)

Day four and we were off to an earlier start than usual with the intention of covering the bulk of the day’s mileage by lunchtime. The air was sweet with the smell of straw; in every field the harvest was progressing in earnest, and the trails of wheat strewn along the sides of the road quickly led us to the truck-loads of cereals queueing outside the mills.

Villages with names such as Much Dewchurch and Turkey Tump rolled past us before our lunch spot at Harewood End. Then, as the scenery changed, we realised that we were approaching the beautiful Forest of Dean district. We were welcomed to the area by the impressive sight of Goodrich Castle, situated in its prominent position overlooking the village.

A long, steep climb was followed by a descent through the trees along a road which gradually deteriorated to a stony track, in true hostel style. To our surprise, however, even this apology for a driveway petered out in the middle of nowhere, and we were just about to turn back when Antony discovered the little green arrow pointing to a path which disappeared into the woods. It was getting too much for Phil when he set eyes on the almost vertical drop and realised that this was one of the two main access roads to the hostel, but the language didn’t really turn sour until he tripped over a tree root! It’s a good job the warden wasn’t within earshot.

Things opened out a bit near the bottom and suddenly there was the Wye in all its glory. This was Welsh Bicknor, simply a church and a hostel by the river in a peaceful valley. What more could one wish for?

We had arrived halfway through the afternoon with the idea of getting our milk and bread from the village across the river (these basic provisions were not available at the hostel). The riverside path to the old railway bridge presented us with a few problems in the form of some carefully-poised stinging nettles, but the slits in the bridge were the worst trap, just wide enough to take a wheel! A steep drop down a grassy bank and we found ourselves on a rideable track at last.

Obstacles behind us, we quickly reached the main road and got down to the important business of finding food. We were surprised to find that neither of the two shops in Stowfield were open. Confident that something would be open on the day after Bank Holiday we went to the larger village of Lower Lydbrook.

“Sorry,” said the Postmaster, “the only grocer who’s likely to be open today is the chap across the road, and as you can see, he’s gone home.” We could see – very well! “I can sell you a postcard if that’s any help?” I thanked him for his offer but explained that we desperately needed to get bread and milk for our breakfast next morning.

“Well,” he said, “your only hope is Coleford, but that’s a long way from here.” I said we didn’t mind how far it was as we were strapping young cyclists. “Oh, well then, just go on up the hill, fork right and follow your nose,” was the reply. “You can’t miss it.”

We thanked him for his trouble and set off up the hill, wondering why on earth we hadn’t ordered hostel breakfasts. The sun only seemed to get hotter as we went on, but the most depressing fact we had to face was the steepness of the gradients in front of us. We were fairly exhausted already, but this infernal road just went up, and up, and up! “Just follow your nose.” Those words echoed in our minds at every bend as a new and steeper stretch of hill opened out of the forest. At long last we reached the top, collapsing in a heap by the side of the road, but now we were determined to get the food no matter how far we had to go.

It was mainly downhill to Coleford, which was all very well but thoughts of “What goes down must come up” lingered in our minds. Morale received a boost on arrival when we saw the number of shops around the town square. Carl and I set off triumphantly to the first big store, but we were in for a shock: bread and milk had not been delivered that day due to the bank holiday! The next shop was sold out and the story was much the same in all the other shops. Our tour did muster one loaf of bread, but there appeared to be no milk anywhere. In desperation I shouted the dismal message across to the others. Suddenly a voice called from behind – “We’ve got plenty here!” Turning around I noticed that I was standing outside a small greengrocers and inside, nestling among the vegetables, were three crates of milk!

Thankfully our return route through English Bicknor was all downhill, and it was with a good deal of relief that we finally locked our cycles away in the hostel shed. As we were the only ones having supper we were endowed with special attention – a sample of the warden’s bell at close quarters was our reward for turning up early!

(Michael Jones)

The tranquillity of the area was interrupted for a brief second during the night by a resounding thump emanating from Number 1 Dormitory. When we set eyes on the scene lit up by the moonlight it was all we could do not to laugh – Antony had apparently rolled once too often in his sleep and fallen to the floor from the top bunk! Now, rudely awakened, he was staring at Philip and wondering how he could see him and why he was feeling so uncomfortable!

The weather did not falter, even on the last day. With reluctance we packed our things and set off for Goodrich and Monmouth. We were soon on the B-roads and at lunchtime we treated ourselves to a slap-up meal at Llantilio Crossenny before making the final descent to Abergavenny and our return train.

It was eight o’clock when we finally got home. Ironically the weather changed that night to give rain by morning. Our appetites have been wetted for future visits to South Wales, but memories will linger with us for many years of our first tour of this truly beautiful part of the British Isles.

(Michael Jones)