Bloody awful - Thursday

After the delights of Dartmoor, the third day was something of a shocker.

The morning started well, with relatively flat terrain and a good average speed in our little group. Even climbing Cheddar gorge was fun.

We stopped for lunch and I slipped away early and decided to take a detour into Portishead (after which the band is named). I also wanted to do a couple of extra miles so that the 98 miles planned would tot up to 100.

I turned out that I was in Clevedon, not Portishead, but it was fun to be off the route and a little bit lost, and I got to see the tidal pool and pier on the River Severn.

After the pm drinks stop we had 30 odd miles to go, across the Severn and into Wales. The route took us along the docks and wastelands of Avonmouth, a more soul sucking expanse of Britain I have yet to see. Then across the endless arch of the  old Severn Bridge and into Chepstow. Up a bloody big hill, now with my left leg feeling like it had been kicked by a mule. (The right knee is fine, thanks for asking, I don't know what all the fuss was about).

Then I got lost. I went down a big hill and asked directions. The next thing I knew I was cycling through Wales on the west of the Wye while my group was in another bloody country. My phone was flat so I couldn't check Google maps and work it out myself. I stopped to ask a postman who directed me further into Wales up more bloody hills with the cheery send off: 'Good luck, it's a really nasty road'.

Then I found myself going past Chepstow racecourse and down a snaking road past Tintern Abbey. There was no time for poetry as by now my leg was hurting with every peddle stroke and I cursed with the pain when I had to pedal uphill.

I knew I had to get back across the Wye and into England, so when I saw a footbridge I went across but only found a rough path going into woods.

It was now getting late and I had already gone past the 100 mile mark. The next bridge was for cars and led to the mother of all hills that went on and on and on. My spirits which had been sapped by the  bleakness of the Severn Estuary and riding lost and alone, were now very low. I seriously thought about checking into a hotel in Tintern and catching up with the group the next day.

Eventually I got to the Youth Hostel that was to be home for the night. It was in a proper castle but I didn't care. What I did care about was having to make my bed, the fact that there were 10 of us in a room with bunks. That there was nowhere to charge my phone. And no wifi so i could not update the blog. But I was there and time quickly did its magic. Blurring the edges of near-psychotic misery into a tale to share in the medieval courtyard where we chatted before supper.

It was a miserable and painful afternoon, it was harder than I ever expected, and I think there may be more pain to come.