Author: liz.rylott

133.09 km, 2,993 m

Today’s sufferfest menu contains three climbs: The Passo Duron, Passo del Cason di Lanza and Passo di Pramollo. To dress it up, we’re serving this menu with lashings of rain. Yum.

Grant, Craig, Sarah, Richard and I head N from the hotel and out into the deluge. The back wheels pick up the wet and shoot it into our chamoised derrieres. Everyone’s soaked in minutes.

A lovely 1000m leg-loosener, the Passo Duron builds as we head N to Paluzza, then E through the hairpins of Ligosullo. The black tarmac has become a mollusc lido, and a peloton of slugs (front crawl, obvs) pass us (maybe). Further on, as the road cuts through a beautiful meadow, the road becomes scattered with <3mm white pebbles. They are not pebbels, they are baby snails and it is kiddie swim time in the lido! My wheels make the kinda noise a spoon makes when it hits a crème brulee.

No one is stopping at the summit. I grab a quick photo with Mark.

A short, sharp descent to Paularo, wet disc brakes squealing like a banshee, Craig and I drip into a café. Again, a dearth of cake. Just three, bored-looking croissants. I do my best Italian-Franglaise to order a café longue/Americano and an Americano with milk. Cheerfully served a thimble espresso, I realise I’ve immediately finished it, so instead, we sit for a few mins, trying not to sway to the (bad) Mexican music. As we leave, we pick up John, Brandon, Julian, Iggy (and others?), and start winding up the Passo del Cason di Lanza, predictably losing them ahead of us on the ascent. The rain stops, and the sun peeks out.

I catch them on the decent, and lead into Pontebba, again no cake (!!!), instead immediately twisting back N through the hairpins of the Passo di Pramollo/Nassfeld Pass and over the border into Austria. Not even a sniff of a patisserie stop on the summit, and I descend, with serious tummie rumbles, into the Austrian town of Tröpolach . Unfortunately, the van is nowhere in sight, so we are unable to don our lederhosen bib shorts, but at the restaurant, we spend some time happily pronouncing words like schnitzel (we know the Austrians love jokes because they live in hill-areas places (not sorry).

The remaining 60km are mercifully flat. In a ten-bike peloton (Ju, John, Brandon, Si, Iggy, Mike, Steve, Steve and Grant(?)), we race alongside the river Gail E’ish, speeding through the pretty Austrian towns and villages (Watschig, Moderndorf, Nampoach, Vorderberg, Notsch im Gailtal) to the front of the (first-prize in the Boxy-est competition) Hotel Seven in Villach.

As far as I know, only one faller today; John took a slide on a wet cornered descent of the Passo Duron (probably some slug slime). Just a bruised palm; he should be ok for his July Men’s Health cover shoot. UPdate, a second faller: Sarah’s wheel caught a drain cover: another elbow planed.

Liz wibbling#2 Manadvice

It seems there is never a shortage of males willing to generously offer free advice to the unsuspecting female cyclist (although to be fair – the lads on this trip have been total stars – not an ounce of patronising).

Here’s a few from my collection:

1. How to wash my bicycle: “you wanna start with a bucket of soapy water…”. ( I spend more time cleaning my bike than my lovely husband spends watching football. Exactly).

2. How to cycle faster: “Get on the drops!”. This gem was delivered as I was smoothly rotating to the front of the peloton. The advice was not proffered to the male cyclists splintering out the back …

3. Pick of the litter this one: “You must have a very good husband to let you out cycling so much…” Oh to have a husband that lets me roam free! The insinuation that a husband is risking promiscuity in his wife and will lose her if he doesn’t tighten the leash.

4. A demo on how to do lunges…(cue humorous physical demo).

5. Half way up an alpine ascent I’ve been advised that I need to “go at my own pace” and “take it steady” Guess there would have been more advice forthcoming, but sadly they dropped back…

137.75 km, 3,188 m.

We depart the glossy mahogany sledge beds of the capaciously-proportioned Park Hotel.

We’re still feeling fresh and chipper, but also stuffed with foreboding. Today is Zoncalon Day. Described as cycling’s sacred mountain, and often a stage in the Giro D’Italia. The pro cyclist Gilberto Simoni summarised thus: “It’s like a slow execution; the easiest part of the Zoncolan is harder than the most difficult at the Tour”. It’s a behemoth 1,182m of climbing, over 9km from Ovaro to Sutrio, with an average gradient of 11.9%. But before then, we have the Sella Ciampigotto (1,790m), a long (16.5km) but relatively gentle ~ 6.4% climb.

From the hotel, we cruise into the ancient city of Belluno and back over the river Piave. Heading NE, we climb gently, criss-crossing the river, as we pass through a series of beautifully named villages including the siblings Ospital-, Perragolo-, Piever-, Calazo-, Domegge-, Lazzo- and finally Laggio-di Cadore (I can’t find a translation for Cadore, but it’s clearly an important thing around here). At one point, the road is barricaded for competitive-looking youth MTB races. We weave through the warming-up contestants and wandering spectators. The support vehicles take a detour (I think?). The climb is pleasant, the vegetation changing markedly as we ascend the lush valley, hitting a few switchbacks to a rocky summit with alpine meadows. Just beyond the summit of the Selle Ciamignotto, I join the Steves at a mountain hut for Coca Colas, and hopefully inquire on a tiramisu. It’s a long shot, and they seem accommodating, but I have to make do with a slice of a cherry, almond and clove cake. It’s a bit dry – needed custard.

Others arrive and after a while we head collectively head off…just 2km along, to the lunch stop we’d kinda forgotten about. It’s a large refugio and we all pile in; inside, the fire is lit! (the locals think it’s chilly, but we’re from Yorkshire). A super-organised cook delivers bowls of pasta, more cola is drunk, then we head off back down the valley. After a few turns, I take the lead, it is butterscotch-sweet. The Pirelli tyres bite into the tarmac curves like liquorice laces. Pushing the weight through the outside pedal, I lean into each of the turns, grinning like an idiot. As the gradient eases, John pulls past, and I hop on the Myburgh Motor to the foot of the Zoncalon.

My Garmin grades steepness in colours: yellow, orange, red…and black. For the next 1000m of ascent, it is black. For any masochists/sadists, thinking of donating to our charity (Just Giving page.), this was The Most Brutal Climb I have Ever Done in My Life. (actually feeling a little sick just thinking about it now). The only way I can get up this giant is by weaving across the road. It allows me to 1. Stay upright. 2. Keep my cadence ‘up’ (50rpm!!!) and 3. My heart rate below 140bpm (I’m trying to take things easy with an eye on actually lasting the full 8 days of riding…).

In the world of cycling, weaving across the road up a climb (to reduce the effects of the gradient) is considered pretty bad form, kinda level with serving a ready meal to guests under the guise it’s your own cooking. That is how low I have gone. Whenever a car comes past, I have to ‘go straight’, and nearly come off a couple of times. At one point, Martin, our lovely support driver kindly pulls alongside to gently inquire if I’m ok. I’m out of puff, and perhaps becoming a little overly focused. Like a drama queen, I breathlessly yell at him to ‘GO, GO, GO! It’s not how I meant it to come out, and Martin speeds off up the hill like a scolded cat. For the rest of the climb (hours), I am filled with remorse. Martin I’m so sorry!

The climb is relentless, my fingers sneak to the levers even though my brain knows we’re out of gears. With so little momentum, any pinecones or small rocks could derail me and I focus like a premiership football goalie (this better be my families favorutite team Spurs’s Guglielmo Vicario), with very little else in my mind. To add to the experience (which I have paid for…), I am so nearly static, that I can’t even outpace the flies; they feast on my arms like freebie sweaty donner kebabs (shudder).

Zoncalon: Bonk-alon (in cycling, this means to run out of energy), Zonk-alon (to hit heavily), Honk-alon (as in “sweaty/not smelling great”), Konk-out-alon (to break down). Send your answer-alon’s on a postcard).

The weather closes in, thunder rumbles across the valley, a storm is on its way. A polystyrene-based helmet, and carbon fibre bike should be ok, but, like a sweaty donner kebab, I’m drenched in enough electrolytes to recreate a Frankenstein’s monster awakening. Nearer the top, relative respite is found in three straight, dank tunnels, then finally, the top is bagged, without an electrocution. A fleeting, dull photo to record the joy as sharp, heavy raindrops slap into my face. I tackle the decent like a Weasley (gingerly), taking the hairpins as though balancing a panna cotta on my top tube. Safely down, but a disappointing waste of a glorious decent.

The hotel Alla Font in Arta Terme (terme: “finished”, and I am so terme…) is comfortingly close to the bottom of the climb, and Iggy waves me into the shelter of the hotel garage. I will never repeat the Zoncalon.

It’s the start of another epic with the Boltonians. This time we’re hauling up/speeding down a route from Venice, through Northern Italy, a snippet of Austria, then looping back through Slovenia, with an optional protrusion S into Croatia. Advance apologies for the jokes…(So I ordered at this restaurant, and the waiter came back with a Tiramisu and a blindfolded horse. “Your order sir.”
“No” I replied, “I ordered Mascarpone.” (Thank you Tim Vine xx)

Some Stats:

We have 24 riders and 2 awesome drivers (in many respects); Graham and Martin. A big shout out to John Myburgh for impeccable organising, and to make sure we don’t let him down, we’ve put some effort prepping for this week: Since 1^st Jan this year, Strava tells me that we (data missing for 4 riders) have ridden > 84,000 practice miles, >800,000m of ascent, and spent over 3,290 hours in the saddle. Google tells me that’s equivalent to 7 ½ years of career training: one of us could be a qualified doctor or speaking fluent Chinese (but still 7000 h short of a golf pro).

Graham and Martin should be waiting at Venice airport (with our luggage, and precious cargo: nearly £180,000’s worth of bikes); or holed up somewhere making listings on eBay…

Each bike has been partially dismantled and lovingly cocooned in insulation padding and bubble wrap. Except for Si Patel’s(?)’s. His arrived late, unpacked and was thrown on the top. It’ll probably be ok…

We’re not just riding for fun and cakes. We want to support a charity that’s close to our hearts, the Bolton Lads and Girls club. I’m hoping that you’ll read this blog and maybe donate to charity because you want to: chuckle (Gen X’ers) or eye-roll (Gen Z’ers) at my foot-in-mouth cultural faux pas; drool over in-depth descriptions and photos from extensive patisserie research (gourmets); appreciate the sea-to-alps flora (botanists); revel in the suffering (sadists, masochists), support my efforts to show misogynists that two woman can match/beast twenty-two (middle-aged 😉) men across 625 miles and 53,266’ ascent over eight days (feminists); and/or help provide a safe space, trained support, and facilities for disadvantaged young people at the Bolton Lads and Girls club. Liz Rylott’s Just Giving page.

Liz’s trip wibbling#1 Physiology Woman v men

From ‘tinternet (I’m not citing peer reviewed literature, just generalising from unverified google fodder -chill!):

Women are ~10% fatter. We carry ~40-50% the upper body muscle of men, that weight-for-weight, is less powerful (men’s muscles have more Type II fibres, which contract faster giving more power and speed). We have an average 12% less haemoglobin in our blood, our hearts are ~30% smaller, and for the same exercise, will beat faster, incurring fatigue sooner. Our VO₂max score (a measure of cardiorespiratory fitness and aerobic performance capacity) is ~15 – 30% less than men’s. How on earth are we going to keep up with the men?

Well, we do have a few tricks up our Lycra…

Our muscles contain more Type I fibres, which are more resistant to fatigue, so maybe better suited to endurance. The gap between the sexes narrows as the endurance event duration increases. Smaller people (so woman more than men) have more surface to volume ratios, so can dissipate heat faster; and might be better at not overheating (this one is no comfort as the weather forecast is looking a little chilly on the tops…). Studies suggest we are better at burning fat compared to our liver-based glycogen stores, again an advantage over longer (>2h) exercise. Strategic thinking is apparently also better developed in woman; we’re less impulsive and thus more likely to measure our exertion up the hills, and over the full 8 days.

And we might be mentally tougher? Mental toughness is a measure of confidence and resilience. We’re less confident (is this why I have caveated all our positive statements with hedge words?!), but we’re more mentally resilient, we are more likely to survive famines and epidemics, and live longer.

Cycling of course needs legs, and here our lower body strength is not so ‘bad’, only 60-70% that of men; female thighs are legendary! Remember Bambi thigh-throttling James Bond in Diamonds Are Forever? And I have a secret weapon: I am packing behemoth thighs. With a 24” circumference (that’s only 5” less than my waist!) these prize-winning marrows are something to fear menfolk.       

Bottom line, Sarah and I will be working physiologically much harder than the boys: This will hurt…so give us some sponsorship wonga to spur us on.

Our Just Giving page 🙂

101.9km, 1,157m ascent

An auspicious start to the trip as we manage to depart the airport without the traditional spaghetti trail of U turns and beeping Garmins (and beeping of expletives). Airports are understandably not designed with cyclists in mind. On previous trips, we’ve come close to hiring an Uber lead-out…

Bikes are hatched from bubble wrapping, and wheels, pedals, seat posts fastened. Every trip someone has a bent rear mech hanger, so we straighten this trips’ and head off.

To start, a pillow of bright, warm air gently buffs us along the sandy canal towpath of the river. Spirits are high; after many months of planning, we are finally on our way…and the terrain is comfortingly flat. The land here is arable, ribbons of wheat and maize growing for future pasta carbo loadings. We turn north onto a dusty A road, and attempt to ride as a group, but there is giddiness in the pack, like a herd of excited bullocks, the front starts to race off. We enter the Treviso, skirting around its inner ring road. Steeped in snappy Italian cool, this is the hometown of the exquisite Pinarello bicycle company, but also Benetton clothes, Diadora (football boots), Geox (trendy shoes – I had to look this one up), Sisley (posh face creams) and trendy coffee machine makers De’Longhi. Even Tiramisu was born here. It couldn’t be more Italian. We off-load our entire Italian vocabulary at the stunning architecture: bellisismo, bella, Dolmio…

We continue another ~20km north, hitting the very first climb of our trip, a mere hiccup of ~100m at into Susegana, a pretty village with old stone buildings, and a white tower and the foothills to The Alps. With fresh legs, we soar over and swoop down into Pieve di Soligo with tummies rumbling. A few more kilometres and lunch presents itself in a shady café/wine bar.

Sincere apologies here, but there was a complete dearth of cakes, not even a sniff of a tiramisu. The world’s smallest Cokeacola bottles and some savoury nibbles sufficed. But don’t worry Reader, I promise to track down double helping of cake tomorrow…

Post lunch, we follow a gentle ascent through Follina: I Borghi più belli d’Italia (one of the most beautiful villages of Italy (Wikipedia). We’re enjoying today. We’re on holiday!!! The route starts to pull up as we hit the foot of the ‘Marble Run’-isque (a favourite with my kids, and shout out to Granny & Grandpa for provision) San Boldo Pass (~600m).

The gradient quickly quells the chit chat. San Boldo Pass is an amazing feat of engineering. We nose through a series of white-washed U-bends. We’ve gone up the swanny! It’s not a ‘big’ big climb, but it’s a taster of what’s ahead. There’s particularly climb on everyone’s mind, and the source of numerous WhatsApp memes and leg pulling over the last 12 months.  The Zoncolon. Rouleur magazine calls it the Giro’s Most Feared Climb. It’ not even on the horizon but is already overlooking our minds…

The summit weather is dark and close, maybe a storm approaching? A fun, descent into Trichiana, then over the glittering waters of the mineral-rich river Piave, and into Triva. A short pull brings us to the rather institutional-looking front of the Park Hotel in Mier.

A few mishaps to report today, as with every one of these trips, there are a few first day mishaps. Kerry mashed his palm into his chainring, Dave L. did a classic ‘fail to clip in-while starting off on a steep climb’, and his brother Pete was caught on a tight bend in a sprawled spooning session with Mark P. Fingers crossed we all stay upright tomorrow.

(Thursday 3^rd August 2023)

The weather has had a few words with itself, and delivered some sunshine. We bid farewell to The Greyhound, temporarily part company with Mr Potato Head.

Heading North across Pitstone Common, we cross back into a SE finger of Buckinghamshire and along  The Ridge Way; Pauls Knob, off to the SW is legitimate cause for another wee snigger, we then climb up onto Ivinghoe Beacon (Beacon Hill 233m). North east, we again cross a border, at Edlesborough, this time into Bedfordshire (Shittington, probs fed up of constatnly being confused with Dorset’s Shitterton).

We hit the outskirts of Dunstable, and urban concrete into Luton, home of Stacey Dooley (TV presenter and 2018 Strictly Champion). Heading N we pass the Wardown Park Museum then Luton Town Ladies Foods. (they need a shout out; raising money to Providing school lunches for children in the Luton area who do not have access to the food voucher scheme, #ENDCHILDFOODPOVERTY). We pick up The Icknield Way NE, a Neolithic trail over 5000 years old, sneak around Warden Hill (195m) crossing another golf course , then head back into Hertfordshire, through a sliver of green at Hoo Bit(?!, Deacon Hill (172m), then back into Wiltshire over the river Hiz at Ickleford. There’s a guns-testing haul of laden bikes over the railway line to earn a stop at Cadwell Farm Lavender Fields & Cafe for a second breakfast. Here we are joined by Mr Potato-Head (looking considerably de-plumped). He has parked the van in Hitchin, and ok’d his cycling head for the rest of the trip (yay!). At the cafe, slice of orange and raspberry cake doesn’t touch the sides, so I throw down a piece of rose and pistachio on a second wave of tea. Correct refueling and nutrition are critical concepts in performance cycling.

We rejoin the Icknield Way, and pull into Letchworth Garden City. The World Health Organisation estimates taht air pollution kills “an estimated seven million people worldwide every year“, so I think it’s worth paying homage to Ebenezer Howard and colleagues who created LGC as the first example of a Garden City, “a new type of settlement which provided jobs, services, and good housing for residents, whilst retaining the environmental quality of the countryside, in contrast to most industrial cities of the time.“(Wikipedia).

An engineered detour takes us to the must-see attraction of Sollershott Circus, the UK’s First Roundabout, built around (sorry) 1909. They have a sign up to celebrate!

Not sure everyone is quite as enthusiastic, so after a few laps, I turn off. We decide to pop into Halfords for more 650b inner tubes, and get an assessment on my bottom bracket; it’s squeakier than Casanova’s mattress… A member of staff declares that the bike looks well-used (it’s literally dripping mud) and before he’s even got close, explains the drivetrain will “need lots of work” (it doesn’t; we leave).

Over the M1, Cal is bitten by another bee/wasp-like insect again (turns out to be thankfully much less severe this time) Then much general NE bike wiggling, over Cat Ditch stream (kittens beware) through Ashwell and across in into Cambridgeshire (Stow cum Quy and Prickwillow). We turn SE at Melbourn for urgent cakey restoratives at The Hideaway Cafe.

Good job we caked-up as our nettle mettle was about to be tested. A slight navigational twitch plunged us S into Essex (Turkey Cock Lane, Ugley and Bachelors Bump) and a pit of nettles. Swimming through the ditch, we flayed to the field edge, then enjoyed a robust thistle and burr shin thwacking before emerging back onto the Icknield Way Trail, and past another golf course.

A final shin-polishing from a field of golden wheat ears yields yelps of pain. Our penance rewarded with some absolutely mint single-track, we barrel through the trees to a bridge over the M11. A few more miles brings us through Hadstock and into the nestled bosom of The Three Hills at Bartlow, on the S edge of Cambridgeshire.

(Friday 4^th August 2023)

How can it be the last day already..? Cal’s bike has nursed up another over-night puncture (I’ve lost count but it’s something like Cal 6: Rest of us 1; the puncture pixie really wants to be his friend…). The pixie might be colluding with the weather imps, as my forecast predicts rainclouds to be exclusively ours. We thwart them both by cutting the route straight to the hotel, then using the car we left there, to pick up the van from Hitchin while the rain blows over.

Under tyre, the terrain is gravelly sand, with flint chips; many of the older houses have flint fronts, and still plenty of thatched rooves. The Garmins point us generally N-ish into Linton, round Balsham then nudge into Cheveley (just S of Newmarket racing, and home of the famous Park Stud). Here we cross into Suffolk (Dicks Mount, and Cock and Bell Lane) through Mouton, then S into the welcoming embrace of the, straw pheasant-topped, Guinness Arms at Icklingham.

Once the vehicle logistics have been sorted, we polish the day off with a dive into the King’s Forest, full of deer, weird sheep hares and other likable critters. Like speed traps, the sandy tracks suck the speed, but also nurse out tyres like slippers; we finish the day, and trip, unpunctured.

It would have been satisfying to complete the full OCW, but we are time poor, and need to high-tail it back home.

A few more photos:

(Wednesday 2^nd August 2023)

Well it didn’t really happen. The weather forecast was foul, and our wasp-bitten friend has a head the size of a house. It’s touch-and-go if he’ll continue the ride, and instead we all take the day off. So this is a No Riding post. But, we are freshly fed and laundered (many thanks J&G!),

We squeeze in a morning stroll around Goring-on-Thames, in the dry, then shelter in Chiltern Velo while rain and tea pour down. The bill is paid with cash as ‘something’ has bitten the local Wifi cables. An educational jolly round the National History Museum at Tring later, explains that a surviving colony of naturalised Glis glis, inadvertently released by Walter Rothschild, the indulged first son of Lord Rothchild in 1800s are the cable chewers. Back in the van and a short drive to crisp sheets at the Greyhound Inn at Aldbury.

Tuesday 2nd August

Originally, a tailwind ride across chalkland bridleways, but following a wasp sting to the forehead of one of our party, we switched to back-up mode. We left The Elephant Man and partner in Devizes to seek out NHS assistance, and hightailed it on a headwind tarmac route to Axminster to fetch the van.

Taking the busy A360, we track S through Pottern, then SW onto B roads through Marston, Coulston and Bratton, and past the Westbury White Horse; grooming crew at work.

Wiltshire boasts a herd of white horses, eight in total. There’s an enticing White Horse cycle route for another trip…We chuff S uphill on a nasty A350 through Warminster , and on to Crockerton, then quieter roads past Shear Water (with a blissful-looking lakeside tea shop). The route improves further through

Maiden Bradley, and a lovely descent into North Brewham, then Bruton. I’m hopeful for a cafe stop, but we’re time pressed, so I sulk, on a spot of gum-free tarmac outside a Texaco, with a Starbucks and flapjack.
Refreshed, we pick up the baton again and plough through Wyke Champflower, Keinton Mandeville, and Summerton. In South Petherton, my partner required immediate calorie intake, and we again huddle down on the tarmac for energy infusion, this time next to some temporary traffic lights.

Not all of the route is grim, we ride some beautiful back roads, inc. the Foss Way (an old Roman road). But SatNav algorithms are directing vehicles off the A roads to save precious minutes, these cars and trucks squeeze past us with terrifying gung-ho joy.

Showers hit both us, and the many signs we pass, advertising soon-to-be-cancelled, summer fun; soggy tombola stands, sodden Morris dancer handkerchiefs, and muddy tug ‘o war bottoms.

A long descent on busy A roads takes us into Axminster, and our van. We double back to Devizes to collect Mr Gorgonhead and partner, and head over to Goring-on-Thames and the lovely In-laws, hopefully in time for G&Ts.

Note on wasps:

Towards the end of summer, the near-exhausted Queen wasp (she’s laid 1000s of eggs over the summer) lays a few eggs that develop into fertile females that will become new queens, and males. The males live for just a few days, dying after mating. The mated queens fly away to hibernate through the winter, and the old queen dies. The worker wasps, all female, are no longer under the hormonal control of the queen. These mad, menopausal wasps party their remaining days away like a nightmare hen party. They guzzle rotten fruit, swear, wear inappropriate clothing, and get into fights. If you cycle into one of them, they will take you on Big Time. Carry antihistamines, and take them asap post sting. Don’t forget to remove any rings/jewellery too in case swelling gets bad.

(Monday 31^th July 2023)

First job of the day is to get a grip, AKA visit a bike shop and swap my split, City Slicker tyre for something with some knobs on. Offcamber Bikes is just around the corner, and they are incredibly awesome. Despite a stack of bikes awaiting work, they find time to fix me with a set of tubeless knobbly bobblies (Cinturato Gravel Classics). These guys are Heroes 🦸‍♀️!

Today’s route is not as hilly, but there’s still some climbing, so we make sure to dodge round Hodhill (144m) while we’re still settling our breakfasts. The route shadows the River Stour before turning east and rising~150m into Shaftesbury. Three of us miss the first turning, and end up powering the slippery slabs up to the hilltop town’s church made famous in the Hovis bicycle ad .

Obvs, there’s a cake stop here (trip cake+: days travelled tally now 4:2, and a chemist stop; one of our party stung through his helmet by a wasp(?)). Then I get to test the knobbly tyres on some fantastic CX down through the woods from Shaftesbury. We whisk up the chocolatey puddles into milkshake. It’s not dissimilar to the chocolate lake in Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Cholate Factory (If we’re lucky, there’s the chance of a washing machine at the next stop!).

Grinning with joy as we whiz past Great Hanging (the good ‘ole days eh?) then over the border into Wiltshire (also home of Honey Knob Hill, Old Sodom Lane, and Ram Alley). A stiff climb on loose gravel takes us up White Sheet (242m), then with a tail wind, and slight downhill, we glide across classic chalk tracks to Chiselbury (204m; so not just my dad who mislaid his tools…).

A fun descent into Wilton follows, another carpet classic with a twist. Our cafe of choice is no longer serving lunch, and despondently turned our custom away (a sign on the door revealing the business is for sale). We cross the square where parking motorists are yelling obscenities at each other, and find sanctuary in the welcoming (newly re-named/ownership?) Cuckoo cafe. Wilton is a bottleneck for the A36, and heavy, angry traffic charges continuously just outside the cafe windows. But the food is yummy😋

We follow the valley, and mercenary A36, to Great Wishford. It is a relief, and minor miracle, to survive the nose-2-tail road traffic, and we peel off for Chain Hill (142m) along a bridle way, with blackberries at the top.

Crossing more chalky paths, with wild flower meadows, the sun actually peaks out for long enough to flint on the tyre sealant hissing from my front tyre. The Sealant Gods are lenient on me today and the puncture heals quickly, although a slow puncture continues to be an issue for Cal. And his wasp bite is still swelling…

Over a small rise and there are The Henges. Bit bigger than I was led to believe from my youth at Spinal Tap concerts…

But incredulous to believe that we treat such an amazing site with such rudeness!

Thick traffic crawls past on the nearby road, and a multitude of vans, wagons and vehicles line a long, rutted siding for parking.

We’re not hanging about to be depressed by the horrors here, and speed on across Salisbury Plain, a famous active military range.

No shooting today thankfully, but some faffing with punctures, and the wasp stung Cal has taken on the appearance of the Elephant Man. We slither down deep clay-filled ruts, like hippos in a luge, then pass through villages inc the elaborately named Etchilihampton, before a ride over a monument Hill, arriving at the Bear Hotel in Devizes (with Wadworth’s 6X promised…).

We’re packing light, washing our cycling kit out each night and wearing it again each morning.  If we’re lucky, there’s the chance of a washing machine at the next stop!

(Sunday 30^th July 2023)

The start of our trip along(ish) The Old Chalk Way: following a geological finger of chalk from Axminster to Icklingham, Cambridgeshire (the actual route is longer). 

Yesterday, we got in-position at Beer YHA, and into the mood by drinking beers (obvs). This morning, due to later logistics, we drove up to Axminster then packed ‘n strapped the bikes. A light drizzle took-to-work on our dry and wizened visages as we set off. Today’s route rising like the scaley coils of a sea monster, up and down into the distance.

After ~10 miles exemplary cycling, we feel we’ve earned a treat, and swerve off the route to sample some local yumities at Attisham Farm (thewagonhousedorset.co.uk).

We’re in Dorset, and there although not directly on our route, there are some amusing place names that should be chuckled over: Happy Bottom, Piddle River, Scratchy Bottom, Shaggs and Shitterton. We plunge and soar (ok, heave and paddle) through Evershop, Holwell, Cerne Abbas…

While I’m still chortling about names in Dorset it’s a good time to mention Mr Cerne Abbas and his 11m member. The naked giant, cut into the chalk hillside is, it seems, “Britain’s most famous phallus”. Harder to make out his facial features on the Wiki image above, but I’m thinking he’s happy. Or he was…

Today he looked like this:

And we were not the only disappointed folks at the viewpoint. Strangers were audibly sniggering at his ‘invisible’ winkle.

Nutrition and adequate refuelling are critical factors in a successful cycle trip, so we pull into the Abbas Tearooms for clotted cream scones (as eaten by Tadej Pogačar on many tours).

The facial drizzle continues. It’s knocking years off us; we’re practically teenagers… it’s also making the tails slippery. The chalky sea monster scales turn into monster, wheels-sucking chocolate brownies. My

We unequivocally storm Bulbarrow Hill (275m) then poke our way through Winterborne Stickland, to arrive at Blandford Forum. The Crown Hotel welcomes us warmly with a heady whiff of chips.