And so it came to pass on the Saturday that I had difficulty in rounding up the ford addicts intent on buckling their wheels, but eventually we were humming along through the other three Duntisbournes to Cirencester, which is a hectic but interesting town with a fine cathedral. A Roman Watch was taking place with men dressed up in centurion costumes parading through the narrow streets behind colourful banners. Our camera shutter buttons were clicking!

We threaded our way out of town onto the quiet Akeman Street (a Roman road) heading for the lovely villages of Quenington and Coln St Aldwyns, thence a climb which affords superb views of Bibury Court. We dropped into the village of Bibury and continued the quarter of a mile to Arlington with its row of old weaver’s cottages. The pub across the road attended to a dozen hungry and thirsty cyclists, and we lingered long enough by the river to get more than our feet wet.

The hot sun soon dried us as we rode on through Ablington, turning on to the Salt Way to Northleach, followed by a hilly ridge road via Farmington to Bourton-on-the-Water and its crowds. Just like Torbay in summer. Ugh!! It’s an interesting place with a lot to see though, and we had tea in one of the quieter cafes before moving on and climbing steadily through Little Rissington, going from Gloucestershire into Oxfordshire’s gentler but still undulating country eastwards to Charlbury.

Charlbury hostel was positively groaning under the weight of bikes leaning against everything! There are seven pubs in Charlbury but it took us a while to find one. We quenched our after-dinner thirsts in the warm night air, and the walk back to the hostel finished us off.

(Rob Spence)

Monday, the last day. Vertical rough stuff over the golf course and across West Down to reach a metalled road to Brockhampton. Our general direction was Chedworth Roman Villa and Compton Abdale seemed a good place for coffee, except that the village hall had been turned into a “save the church bells” café with good food at unbelievable prices. I could write ten pages on the hilarity of the next hour as we all ordered more and more food and drink and caused chaos! Our hosts kept their cool, though the bit of old railway track they suggested we use to get to the villa may have been their last laugh!

I was disappointed that we could not negotiate a party rate, and in the event only three of us had a look at the mosaics etc of Chedworth before we got stuck into the task of getting to Cheltenham in time for our train home. Dropping off the escarpment through Dowdeswell was fast and exciting, and traffic was surprisingly light as we rode to the station.

We had enjoyed the best weather in fine scenery, only the three hours of rain on Sunday; and four days had gone in a flash, more the pity. On the train home, thoughts were turned to future tours.

(Rob Spence)

On 24th June we arranged to meet the Torbay campers after their joint sleep-out at Sampford Courtney the previous night. The weather was breezy and cloudy, and a bit of a relief from the recent oppressive heat. We wandered out through Newton, Bovey and the lanes around Lustleigh, crossing the valley north of Moretonhampstead for the steep climb to Cranbrook Castle, where we arrived on the stroke of one o’clock. Of the two who met us there, Michael Jones at least appeared to have been camping; Richard’s bike didn’t have a tent peg in sight – his gear was apparently getting a lift home in Colin’s car!

It was breezy at Cranbrook Castle, but we found shelter beneath the earthworks. The view, however, was extensive and magnificent. After lunch, Michael Ward insisted we descend the rocky path to Fingle Bridge even though the two campers had just ascended it. However, justice was seen to be done when he got a puncture on the way down. Unfortunately, so did Richard, and three others had falls on the tricky descent.

Having sorted ourselves out we ascended steeply to Drewsteignton and continued past Castle Drogo to Chagford, from where we ascended again to the Postbridge road and headed towards Widecombe. On the narrow B-road, one driver got rather agitated when we proved it was quicker by bike as he was held up by oncoming traffic.

Phil then made himself more popular with the younger, more tired members by heading up the track towards Hamel Down. However, no-one took up the offer of an alternative easy descent to Widecombe, so we continued to the top, to be rewarded with a clear view to the coast at Teignmouth and Torbay.

Parts of the descent to Widecombe were again a little demanding but we all arrived in once piece at the café, where we tucked into cream teas, strawberries, gateau etc - and in Richard’s case, at least one of each!

No-one seemed too perturbed at the prospect of riding up Widecombe Hill now, as we were all looking forward to the exhilarating descent from Haytor to Bovey and home.

(Phil Burrows)

[We have been unable to find attendance records for this period, so the attendance list for this event is incomplete]

Sunday dawned clear and bright and remained so all day! We initiated our day's programme of activities with a quick ride into Golant to look around. Mike was particularly keen to locate and investigate a recording studio that he knew of in the area, so he and I set out to locate it. We did, after many enquiries, and were shown around by four charming girls aged between about three and nine, so thanks very much to them.

Rejoining the others, we set off on our way along the main road to Par. As we passed through the town, a Sunday market caught our collective eye and we stopped and wandered around for about an hour, after which those with¬out water-pistols were in a minority. On the way out, Jamie's bike slipped from underneath him on the loose ground and he had to be patched up by Nurse Mike, but he bore his injuries very bravely.

Circumnavigating St. Austell, we reached the beach at Porthpean in time for lunch followed by water-pistol fights. A few miles further and we were in Mevagissey, where we stopped for about an hour, which passed pleasantly with the aid of massive whirly ice-creams, an aquarium and a plague of seagulls. From there, we continued to Portmellon, then after a steep climb out the going was easy for the last couple of miles to Boswinger hostel.

We found ourselves sharing a dormitory with a young cyclist who came from "Up North" - and had the accent to prove it. He had been touring with a friend but had left
said friend behind, taking the maps with him, when the friend had begun to annoy him by moaning all the time.
The friend failed to put in an appearance during the evening and was presumed by "Mega" (so christened by us on account of his using that superlative to describe almost everything) to have taken a train home. Mega’s real name turned out to be Andrew Merrick, and I may say that his refusal to first tell us his Christian name, on the grounds that it was embarrassing, upset me immensely!

Later on we took a walk down to a nearby beach, and the youngsters went swimming and played games with Mike's tennis ball. This was brought to an end by the successful conclusion of a game called "Lose the Tennis Ball" which unfortunately had a less successful, outcome.

(Andrew Billington)

Monday was the day when I was to display my hitherto undiscovered prowess, or otherwise, as leader and route finder, and after the standard hostel breakfast of a vaguely sub-standard fry-up followed by cold cardboard toast we set off on our merry way.

The sun shone brightly, echoing our mood. After a brief look at the small and sleepy coastal village of Portholland, the first stop was Veryan, famed for its unusual round cottages which we stopped to admire in true grockle (or should I say emmet) fashion. Then we left the winding and undulating lanes to follow the A3078 to St. Just-in-Roseland, which boasted a church set in sub-tropical gardens.

We continued to St. Mawes, from where we took a ferry to Falmouth, during which journey we decided to consume our hostel packed lunches. This turned out to be a mistake. If you have ever sampled one of these culinary masterpieces you'll know that they invariably contain soggy white chocolate spread sandwiches, a chocolate biscuit and a packet of nasty yellowish things called "Martian Spaceships", or something like that, and are roughly equivalent nutritionally to the paper bag that they come in. This one was no exception, its only edible component being a rather wizened apple.

Reaching Falmouth, Mike took Jamie to the hospital for a professional dressing to his leg while the rest of us found out what the town had to offer in the way of decent food - not much as it turned out!

We found our way out of Falmouth and then Mawnan Smith by a road attractively canopied with trees. Less than a mile further on and we were at Glendurgan Gardens, a National Trust property which was our next scheduled stop. We all paid our slightly extortionate entrance fee, except for Martin and Duncan who claimed they couldn’t afford it but in reality, I suspect, were bored stiff at the prospect of looking around gardens. However the lady at the entrance took pity on them and let them in for nothing, doubtless to their deep dismay. She must have taken a fancy to us because her generosity extended to giving us a pound to buy us all an ice-cream. The fact that there was nowhere in the gardens to buy ice-cream had obviously escaped her, and we searched in vain until Michael remembered that confectionery is never sold on National Trust Properties!

After spending an enjoyable hour or so on the beach that adjoined the gardens it was time to make a move, so we did, and headed for the ferry which would take us across the Helford river. Unfortunately, in my enthusiasm, I missed the turning and led my dumb trusting flock about a mile past it, downhill at that, necessitating a gruelling climb back up. Things were made worse by the fact that time was getting on and the ferry would be shutting down imminently. We made it in time though and crossed the river in two groups because the boat was so small.

After the crossing, a small tearoom perched on a cliff overlooking the mouth of the river gave us a chance to relax after the anxiety of nearly missing the ferry. When our pulses had returned to normal, we carried our bikes up to the road and continued to Coverack hostel via four miles of wiggly lanes.

True to form, we arrived just as dinner was being served, and very excellent it was too; fish and chips with peas, lettuce, parsley and lemon. The hostel was populated almost exclusively by Trendy Young Things, presumably because the warden ran a windsurfing course, but apart from this was quite acceptable. During the night a violent thunderstorm blew Martin’s shorts and towel from the window ledge onto the roof, causing predictable hilarity in the morning.

(Andrew Billington)