As we left Glastonbury, I thought we'd left the hills far behind, but choosing to go along the Old Bristol Rd straight north towards Bristol (to avoid being pasted over the M5) meant more uphill struggles. Walking my bike along these roads is like dragging a stubborn and very stupid pack-mule, which can just about flail its way downhill but refuses to climb anything with an uphill gradient.
We rode towards the murky city of Bristol over the shores of Chew Valley Lake, which I never previously knew existed and which sounds and looks like it belongs in the US. The peacefulness of the calm water reflecting the clouds, the randy swans and moorhens chirping reedily was ruined, however, by the trucks endlessly clanking past on the way to and from the city.
Bristol is now marketing itself as a bike-friendly city, and the cycle routes are fairly well signposted (and free maps are easy to get hold of), if not entirely pot-hole free. But while the battle with drivers on the road is slowly being won, many of these routes involve bikes and pedestrians sharing many the same space - and not all walkers have cottoned onto this yet.
The night was spent at the surprisingly nice YHA on the riverside, although I was tormented by the sounds of a woman snoring in the bunk below mine and had to fashion earplugs out of toilet paper.
Leaving Bristol in the blazing sunshine along the road to Avonmouth I was struck by a sense that I was in Africa (maybe because I'm currently reading Ryszard Kapuściński's Shadow of the Sun, about his time as a reporter in Africa). The brown waters of the Avon looked as dark and impenetrable as the Nile, with muddy banks that would slide under your fingers if you were unfortunate enough to fall in; the red bus lanes looked like patches of desert, bordered with scrubby bush and rusty fencing.
We cycled through an industrial estate and towards Avonmouth, which is notable for being a place to stop for change for the Severn Bridge toll, and little else. Even in this bleak area, spring is making itself felt, and perhaps as a cyclist, riding on narrow paths and fringes of roads or pushed up against the hedgerows, you notice it more. Here at the edges branches are poking out, catkins are lying coiled in piles to derail you, grass is sprouting out of pot-holes. Everything is pushing, thrusting and grabbing, waiting to slap you in the face for daring to intrude on its territory.
Despite this outflux, the stories I hear are still ones of warning, that the weather is too good, too early, and that there will be a cold spell yet. All this life will have to shrink back, freeze and start over again.
And then we were over the Severn Bridge (more on that in a minute), which means the first part of our journey, the Westcountry, is complete! It's a part of the world I'm very familiar with, but it was interesting to see it to from a new perspective, out in the open air for long hours at a time and meeting people I would otherwise not have spoken to.
So the Severn Bridge - epic, glorious and wonderful. As a child I had a recurring nightmare about a long white bridge that stretched for miles but as I travelled along it got narrower and narrower until I was crawling on my hands and knees staring into the sea. The first time I crossed the Severn Bridge, I recognised it from the dream. I started the crossing in terror but the moment I reached the other side, realising there was an end, fell in love with it and have enjoyed crossing it ever since. Today, cycling over the old bridge further north (the newer one is only open to motor vehicles), I could see its vast beauty and the whole expanse of estuary glimmering in the sun. It's a shame how few people see this as they fly blindly over locked up in their cars and trucks.
Then it was on into Wales, along the coastal road past St Brides, where the daffodils are rife. But that's a story for another day.
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