Not a million miles from home.

An evening relaxing by the stream. Well earned.

 It felt a special moment as we stood outside, bike and trike loaded for a short tour. We had confined ourselves to the local area around my house. We were smiling and laughing like children with the excitement of being free again to explore after all the recent restrictions due to Coronavirus. The destination was as irrelevant as any daily mileage goals would have been and what we might achieve by completing it. It was simply a few days riding our bikes and sleeping under canvas (polyester really). A few precious moments where everything to do with 2020 could be put into a different perspective as we allowed nature to consume us, beguile us and maybe transform us into something a little more mindful; than we have been of late.

Teresa was on her, appropriately named, Specialized Vita and I would be riding my modified KMX Kolt trike that I have just converted to electric assist. Age waits for no man and I have begun feeling the need for a little extra shove in recent years as I said in my last post. I'm as fit as I can be but the hope is that this modification will help me maintain a good level touring ability into old-age. I stepped back from a mid-drive motor, almost twice the torque of my rear hub motor, as I don't need that right now. As I age this will change and that will be the time for even more of a push.

We no longer want to camp ultra-light and so this trip saw us carrying a lightweight duvet from the bed and a pillow each! Softy southerners and proud of it. More usually we had my Trangia, a spirit stove that I love. It's slow and relatively heavy and takes several minutes more to make a brew than your average gas or petrol stove. And that is its charm, it wont be rushed. No matter what you want it just chugs away unnoticed until steam signifies your brew is ready. In all fairness, we had looked for some gas but there seems to be a shortage as everybody is now going on holiday in the UK and camping seems the way to go as it's outdoors. Meths is much cheaper though and freely available in most of Europe.

Happiness is cycle touring.

As I had the electric assist, I took the weighty equipment while Teresa took the bulk. This had the added advantage for Teresa that her bike looked like a bike that was be ridden by a double-hard, musclebound bastard, while in actual fact it was being ridden by a lovely, feminine woman of petite nature and an ever smiling face.

Cruising away from home that morning was like being born-again. For me, memories of journeys now long past came to me as though they were yesterday. It was as though my body and mind instantly synchronised into another version of me  It was similar to, but far away from, the version of me that climbed and flew paragliders. The same person undoubtedly, but without the angst and despair that coursed through my veins and mind back then. This was a much gentler and more rounded version of that Graeme, and I felt very glad to be that person as we pulled away from my home.

Miles are like time: some pass quickly while others seem to take an age. some are gentle and soothing and others brutal and testing. When you abandon the need to rush it no longer matters whether you go far or not. We simply rode, sometimes walked, particularly on the ridiculously steep slopes around Chagford, where I might happily take a mountain bike, but my trike struggled for traction on a super-steep road without a surface, full of potholes and piled high with gravel. Quality matters when you construct a route for others. This section of the Dartmoor Way (post Chagford, going clockwise) doesn't have any. I presume it goes this way as it's the only way to avoid the main road, and for that reason only I can forgive the people responsible. Next time though, I will take my chances on the main road.

Even this disruption to the peace couldn't spoil the day though. The sun shone and the road under our wheels slid gently along getting ever-further from home in the easiest way possible. I find this the easiest way to leave my home. Demons still prowl in my mind and I sometimes need to sneak away stealthily. By the time they get what's going on I'm miles away and laughing at them. They have to wait for another chance when I'm not paying attention to get me back. It's a game we have played for many years now and one I have no expectation of coming to an end. It's part of me.

Spot Hercules. Semi-wild camping.

It was good to see other cyclists emerging from their lairs to explore again. A nod here, a hello there and a good chat with a farmer that I consider to be a friend made me feel at ease with being out in the world again. "Does Teresa always smile like that," he asked. Yes, I replied, almost always. Now, the Dartmoor Way has a reputation for being tough. It's a challenge route and not one I would choose to ride any longer. We climbed some impressive hills in beautiful scenery and Devon, at that moment, felt as good a place to be as anywhere in the world. Why the rush to go abroad? I don't understand. Flying is such a hassle and other than those dwelling in major cities, escape from the usual to unknown, for us lucky ones, is often just a few miles away, especially on the lanes most cyclists use.

The purpose of our heading this way was to access the new trail from Mortenhampstead to Bovey Tracey along the old Wray-Valley railway line. All I can say is: 'go and do it.' It's the most beautiful valley with rounded hills and a myriad of green shades in the trees fields and hedges adding to the splendour. Rocks lay as though abandoned in emerald and gold fields, scattered by nature millennia ago. Farmers drive around them to work out of respect for the past. Most of all, there is a silence, a quiet that we all yearn for at a deep level. Heading south is almost entirely downhill too, which is a bonus as you can roll peacefully along with virtually no effort.

Just a few miles after Mortenhampstead, a notice on a tree signified that we have reached our destination. All that remains now is to drag our cycles through the woods on a narrow single-track and through the river, that is thankfully shallow at this time of year, to our overnight stop at a semi-wild campsite. There is a bridge, but it's bult around an existing tree making it all but impossible to get a bike over it, let alone a trike. The owner of the site is hoping Dartmoor National Park will give them permission to place a proper bridge over the river at some point. I hope they succeed.

Semi-wild translates as a field with few amenities other than a tap and long-drop toilet. You still pay for camping, unlike proper wild-camping, but it was only £10 for two of us and has a great ambience. It is a lovely place though, and who can blame them for jumping on the band-wagon of currently-popular tags to peoples adventures like 'wild camping.' Think of it as sleeping in the garden when you were a child and you won't be far wrong, other than the grass not being manicured and the chickens running all over.

The Wray Trail. Just lovely.

Our  evening stroll around the grounds of the campsite revealed countless photo opportunities that we grabbed with both hands. It was pleasant to saunter slowly, feeling the sun and hearing the water babbling inanely along the river banks, gurgling and splashing like a child in a paddling pool. If you tuned in closely you could almost hear it laughing with joy as it made its way towards the ocean and in turn it left us peaceful and relaxed.

Back through the river the next morning we were soon on the move again. The trail from the campsite was angled slightly downwards so you could almost roll down to the beautiful village of Lustleigh. A little further, and over a short hill, we were back on a traffic-free trail all the way into town. I say town, but Bovey Tracey, although much bigger than when I lived there, feels like a village. Don't tell anybody I said that, they don't like it.

Refuelled at the lovely cycle cafe, The Cafe 360, that now resides in Bovey, we set off for Ashburton, a mere 14km away but on the other side of the hills, serious hills. As it happened we rode up steadily and met a recycling wagon that completely blocked the road. It was fabulous, the perfect excuse to take our time and move up slowly. I coughed roughly and the van attendant said, 'I thought cycling was supposed to be good for you?' I replied that I had asthma, the implication being that he should shut-up. In this Covid world, it seems some folk are wary of any cough from anybody, even one near the ground when they were standing and several metres away. 

Eventually the van turned away and we continued, forever uphill. It was a stunning climb and one where we took the opportunity to stop and look at just how stunning the surroundings were. Pulling into a lovely viewing spot, Teresa wanted a drink. I took the bottle, removed the top, handing it to her. A shriek and a gasp told me something was wrong. I had inadvertently handed her the metholated spirit bottle, not the water. I felt instantly terrible at having tried to poison my partner this way and at having been so thoughtless. There followed much gargling, and spitting of water before Teresa felt able to continue. Oops!

Dartmoor. Time to relax and enjoy the 'back in time' scenery.

Eventually the world tipped the opposite way and we descended, not in a maniacal flurry of crazy speeds. No, it was way too narrow for any heroics like that. We descended as we climbed, slowly and mindfully, taking the time to look around at the pine-fresh woodland that surrounded us. Arriving in Ashburton was a rude awakening. People busied around in their vehicles without a thought for those who were not driving. Business as usual then? Parking at the roadside we noticed the queues outside most shops. Only two people were being allowed in at that time. We chose the shortest queue, rather than the cheapest shop, and then took our wares to a picnic table that Teresa's eagle-eye had spotted We took the time to chill and eat and soak up the friendly atmosphere of his bustling town while laughing at the fact I had labelled today 'the easy day,' when it had proven anything but.

Our second campsite, a few miles from Ashburton, was an old fashioned one: basically a large field with a loo block, but lovely and open with views to the moor that we would cross the next day. There was lots of space and shortly after arriving, so did the entertainment in the form of a couple who had brought along their Yurt to camp in. But first, they had to build it.

We had hours of fun watching (about five hours), and sometimes helping. Why bring a yurt? Who knows, but the man was very intense and had made a beautiful job of crafting this one himself, something to be admired I reckon. Eventually we ran out of sniggering, childhood, jokes concerning Vegans, hippies, and the mans inability to just get on with the job without contemplating every move for twenty minutes first. So, we went to bed in the knowledge that as tomorrow dawned he would back out trying to complete the interior of the yurt, adding the inevitable log-burner, rugs and prayer flags. Each to their own. At least they got the roof and sides on just before dark. 

Next morning we were away relatively early. Well, early enough that nobody else was properly up yet. The forecast was for something approaching 30 degrees centigrade and that isn't the best temperature to cycle up and over Dartmoor's mighty flanks. It felt good to ride in relative cool, the morning air bringing me back to life once more. Few flies buzzed around, I guess they were still sleeping too. The climb up to the moor is a steady one for the most part with some steeper, strenuous parts thrown in for discomfort.  

Ponies. It would be rude not to I feel.

There were still plenty of cars on this route, including the people who were camping next to us earlier on (no, not the yurt dwellers). We crawled up slowly until we hit the open moor. Wow, what a treat that is. Every time I'm here, but especially when I've pedalled here it feels very special. The motor on my trike whirred quietly as it assisted my climb up o the moor and on arrival Teresa didn't appear? I walked down the hill to ind her struggling with a jammed chain and a badly cut finger. I had adjusted the derailleur prior to leaving to stop this happening. The only reason I could think for it to happen was that the screw stop had vibrated undone.

We soon had the chain back on and the screw adjusted again and I set about cleaning up Teresa's damaged finger. Clean and plastered, not that sort of plastered, we set of again. The moor is a place of wonder. It exudes an ancient atmosphere that, along with the oddly-shaped tors and granite boulders, makes you feel you have stepped back in time. In poor weather it can be other-worldly. Today though it was shiny and bright with ponies chomping at the vegetation and sheep trying to out-stare us, as sheep do. We tip toed our way quietly across the open moor, gorging on its delights until we fell off the other side.

We could have stayed all day, just looking, but with a way to go we set off, passing Hound Tor and then rolling almost all the way to Chagford where we were hit by a sudden hunger that all cyclists know. Having gobbled down a pasty each we set off, destination the ridge high above where Castle Drogo lurks. Prior to leaving Chagford, who should suddenly appear at the roadside but our Bikeability instructing colleague Margitta. A long chat and reassurance that the next hill was really okay, was very pleasant, if a little misleading. 

Margitta is much younger and fitter than I am. The hill would have been okay but for the endless stream of traffic using it to get up to Castle Drogo. Neither traffic coming up the hill, nor traffic coming down the hill wanted to give way and the constant stop-start nature of the pedalling was horrible to say the least. Sadly, those who come here on holiday have no idea how to drive on lanes. They seem hyper- aware of not scratching their cars, rather than not hitting a cyclist, and they drive too fast. It took an age and a great deal of effort/patience to escape this, but escape we did, flopping down on a campsite called Barley Meadow at the top of the hill we just climbed for the night. 

Teresa looking happy just prior to drinking the Meths!!! Eeek.

It was pleasant enough a site, very clean and organised. The majority of campers were using large white lumps of plastic to sleep in, in the form of caravans and motor homes. I always feel that this leaves campsites feeling a little like giant car parks, but the upside is that the owners get to make far more money from these people with their demands for space, electricity and other facilities than they could ever make from those of us under canvas/ polyester! They also have a much longer season now on account of motor homes and caravans having their own heating systems. The only downside for us was the fact that it cost £18 for a wee tent and a bit of grass may not much by today's standards but more than it perhaps should be given how little we demand.

All we had to do now was pedal home. We knew that heading north would put us at odds with the landscape. All the ridges run east to west around here, so we would travel up and down like a yo-yo until we started heading west along one such ridge westwards. It was such a pleasant route and, of course, we were in no hurry at all. One hill stood out as unreasonable. I'll let you find that one for yourselves, it would be a shame to spoil the surprise.

And that as they say was that. The motor had been superb. I now knew its limits and that the battery would last ages longer than I thought, mostly because I don't use it that much. Further experiments would teach me how to really get the most from the motor, but that is for another time.

This ride was an absolute pleasure. We both grinned like Cheshire cats on arrival at my home. Those few, precious days may be all we get from this year in cycle-camping terms but they were golden. The sun shone, the peace reigned over us and tranquility was restored, at least for a while. Who needs Magaluf when you have all this history, variety and excellent cycling at your finger tips? Not us.

Until next time......................... 

The author.