Quite a funny thing happened, as I was coming out of Bridgewater, this rather strange looking bloke passed me going full pelt on a supermarket full suspension mountain bike. He was looking over his shoulder as if he was inviting me to race him. He passed me, so I sat on his rear wheel for a minute or so. I then sped up and passed him, not really pushing it but going faster than I had been. At which point, there was much crunching of gears as he tried to stay on my wheel. Needless to say, that was the last I saw of him, the bike probably weighed more than he did.
I made my way along the route, most of which, at this point, was fairly flat. At Cheddar Gorge I stopped for a coffee at one of the many tea rooms. I then headed off through Cheddar Gorge towards Bristol. A couple of miles after Cheddar Gorge I met a guy from Germany on his bike who had arrived in England the week before. He was cycling to some place in Wales, he wasn't quite sure where exactly, but he knew he would know it when he got there. He was just cycling in the general direction of Wales. We chatted for quite a while. When he left, he headed east, he then changed his mind and headed south towards Cheddar Gorge not at all convincing me that he knew where he was going. It was strange, meeting him really lifted my spirits. He was in no hurry, he was just accepting life and seeing where it took him. I wonder what the world would be like if there were more people like him?
I cycled on, looking for my next left turn, which never seemed to come. After a good few miles, I realised I had missed my turn so I was back out with the map trying to get myself back on track. Quickest way was on the A37, so the A37 it was. Once I neared Bristol, I managed to pick up the original route, which would take me around Bristol. It's quite weird, but whenever you need to find your way around a town or city, the CTC route always manages to find hills to send you up, even when the terrain is generally flat.
I was coming to Bristol from the south and I needed to get north west, to Alveston. My route took me east, anti-clockwise right around the outside of Bristol. At almost exactly east, I got lost again. Well not exactly lost, I just didn't know which direction I was heading. I thought I would ask one of the kind, friendly locals for help. I stopped a chap and asked him which direction Siston was? He stuck up his middle finger in response, which I took to mean that he wasn't quite sure, either that or he didn't like cyclists. Not to be deterred, I stopped a man and woman and asked them if they knew of Siston. Apparently, they had lived around there all their lives and had never heard of a village called Siston. This wasn't good. With no other option, I headed off in the direction I thought, and after about 200 metres, much to my relief, there was a sign, Siston was only one mile away. Seems like that man and woman didn't stray far from their home.
After Siston, I managed quite well, apart from a vicar sending me three or four miles out of my way. I was slightly perturbed when his lady companion passed a comment something along the lines of "You can't get to Alveston that way, can you?" upon hearing his directions.
I arrived at Alveston, safe and sound, after a long day, 104 miles, lots of hills and a rather alarming 5942 calories burned. I rather enjoyed my Peroni while waiting on my Italian takeaway.
We were staying at a campsite in Slimbridge for the night and guess what, it rained and another thing, it was windy. Joy!
Song for Today: Blur - End of a Century
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