"To Catch A Rainbow" Devon Travelogue by travelinxs

'garden' camping (click to enlarge small photos)

Friday 13th June dawned. Despite a wonderful leaving party organized by Matt and the Bottle Shop crew I wasn’t in bad shape. Which was more than could be said for Juliet, who limped painfully around the campsite that had been home for the past month whilst I packed up.

With the bikes loaded, I asked her what she wanted to do. Her injuries were giving her much discomfort yet, courageously or foolhardedly she agreed to set off.

We climbed onto Hagar and Mybike, now looking far more like BMW touring motorbikes than humble bicycles, and wobbled off alarmingly down the Tarka Trail.

The going was steady if not swift and we finally left the trail near Meeth, now well into the Dark Heart Of Devonshire.

Juliet claims to be a badge holder...

Despite having always lived in Devon, I had forgotten just how ridiculously hilly the lush green county is, something that cannot be truly appreciated until one tries to pedal around 40 kilos of junk up one of its unforgiving tors. But we made it to our first campsite at Dolton, alive and well, some 51km / 32 miles later.

The hills were unrelenting as we continued south. There were occasional murmurs of “I .. cant .. do .. any .. more .. HILLS!” from Juliet, but she persevered, by now undoubtedly wondering what the hell she had let herself get in to.

We couldn’t find a campsite, so that evening, looking disheveled and knackered, I knocked on the door of a country bed and breakfast and the kindly owners allowed us to camp free in a secluded part of their garden, perking us up with a nice cup of tea and a chocky biscuit.

There were the ubiquitous annual, at times biannual, farewell drinks in Newton Abbot with friends and we turned east along the south coast, campsite hopping as we went.

The scenery was often beautiful and the weather mostly kind, but the hills were always so steep and so painful that progress was almost stalled.

another breakdown

I would while away the hours in the saddle curb-combing. Its amazing what little gems can be found along the sides of the road. I found many useful bits for the bikes; nuts and bolts and bits of string and pulled carrier bags from out of hedgerows. You cant have too many of them when camping.

Juliet wasn’t terribly impressed with the gentleman’s tweed cap I started wearing and I had to throw that away. As for the chocolate Penguin biscuit I picked up and ate, she went quite perculier on me. Didn’t know why. It was in its wrapper. I was hungary for gods sake.

Brighton

At a painfully expensive campsite north of Weymouth we called a halt for a day off and spent a blustery afternoon wandering the seafront of the crusty old holiday resort.

Onward we plodded, crawling along the coast, passing Worthing with a chance to pay homage to its infamous Men Behaving Badly pier, until just after Brighton, nearing the end of a very long day, Juliet’s shoulder gave. She was almost in tears with so much pain and was having such a hard time she began to suggest calling it a day and heading home by train.

I called a day off, so we took a local train into Brighton to sit alfresco with cappuccinos to watch the gays, dykes, punks, Mods and freaks cruising the hippy shops of the Lanes.

time for a nice cup of tea

Im sure it was her commitment to the trip more than a genuine desire that drove Juliet on once more.

Her investment in the bike and gear and pledge to friends that she would attempt a bike journey made it harder for her to give up than carry on, no matter how impossible that seemed.

Further east we were given free coffee by a right royal geezer who owned a roadside burger shack; “You cycled those from Devon?” he barked. “Bleedin’ heck! I wouldn’t tow my bleedin’ caravan to Devon. Too bleedin’ far!”

On a sunny Wednesday morning, after a tough thirteen days, we freewheeled into the port of Dover. Yes, it had taken a long time. And true, it had been slow. But no matter what you think of my efforts, that Juliet managed to cycle a very heavy touring bike whilst suffering from an injury, 399 miles from Atlantic coast to English Channel along the hardest of routes is not just commendable; hell, she deserved a bloody medal!

And its not just about cycling. Every day there is the getting up just after dawn, packing up camp, buying food on the tightest of budgets (thank god for Tescos!), repairing and maintaining the bikes – Juliet’s front low rider pannier frames broke four times alone. Cooking and washing when its too cold, too wet, too windy and all the while feeling exhausted. It all compounds to test the endurance and attack the nerves.

I think Juliet had come to realize that travel isn’t necessarily a holiday and being at home in a routine life can be easier. But she rode onto the ferry nevertheless and with me excitedly hopping around like a school kid on his birthday, the white cliffs of Dover to stern faded into the haze.

The training was done.

It was adventure time.

to catch a rainbow

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