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June 3 Saturday overcast humid 15º C Bicycle touring England A peaceful night -- with earplugs, since we're so close to A12. And we didn't want to be woken by any amorous woodland creatures. We pack up our cycle touring gear and check our newly acquired AA map. We discover that we can indeed go right at the roundabout and get to Woodbridge on a nice quiet road. We do. In Woodbridge we see a beautiful clean park. With toilets. I like this bicycle touring in England. There are a pair of park workers, busily planting marigolds. A little girl rides in a wagon pulled by one of the workers. Her arms are folded like a miniature princess. "Ah," she sighs as she passes Sharon and I. "Bliss." The workers greet us with a cheery "Good morning." One says, "Have a good breakfast. I had bacon and eggs." I notice a dark stain on my front bag and wonder how I got grease on it. One of the ferries, no doubt. I head toward the washroom and pass the workers. They ask where we're heading. "Lunch," I reply. They point out a good pub on my map. A nearby old gent, watching them plant the marigolds, says, "You must be hoping for rain." "We'll let these blokes get their tent set up first," one guy says. In the washroom, I go to put on some more Pyralvex, the rhubarb extract from Madeleine for my cold sore, and discover what has made the dark stain on my handlebar bag. Apparently when I used the liquid in the dark last night, I screwed the cap back on askew, and, even though I have always sat it upright in the corner of my bag, last night I did not. Consequently the entire bottle upset and poured its contents onto the other items in my handlebar bags. Yahoo. We cycle along, meandering along quiet country lanes, only getting lost a couple of times. It feels like World War II where the English changed all the signs at the intersections to confuse the Germans. Well, I suspect not all of them got turned back correctly. We cycle past a tree that looks like a craggy old face ... tobacco oozing out of its mouth and having a bad hair day. At noon we cycle up to a restaurant with a sign out front reading: "Now Frying." It is a fish and chip place. They have takeout. We lean our fully loaded touring bicycles against the side of the building and go inside and join the lineup. There's one guy working, who looks suspiciously like Popeye without his pipe, is doing the fish and chip frying, wrapping, taking money, washing dishes, and table waiting. The guy is busier than a one-armed wallpaper slapper upper. He has a bucket of batter that he pours into a bread loaf tin, dips the fish in, and then drops the fish into one of three deep-fryers. Fresh potatoes are pre-cut into chips and he pours them into the hot oil too. While all of this is going on, he takes orders, wraps the fish and chips in newspaper, and takes the money. Besides us folks in the lineup for takeouts, the restaurant has people at tables too. He goes and takes orders. There is a warming bin with plates in it. He heaps on fries and one or two pieces of fish and serves them with slices of bread that he has just slapped butter on. I try to listen to what other people are saying when they order, but I can't understand what they're saying. This is English? When it's my turn I ask for one order of fries and two fish. That what I get. £3.50. (There's no menu board or price list. So, if I were working for "minimum" wage it just would have taken me almost two hours of my life in order to pay for lunch.) I guess it's pretty straight forward. Fish. Chips. Or fish and chips. There. That about covers it. Next. I'd definitely say he was busier than a one-armed paper hanger. A lineup of customers were in front of me when we arrived and fifteen minutes later when I received my order there was a lineup of customers behind me. Now Frying. Get em while they're hot. The fish was bland tasting (especially after raw herring, eh), but salsa ketchup spiced it up. The country lanes we are cycle touring are narrow. They are good-sized for bike paths. When we hear a tractor, we pull off and wait for it to pass. They take up the whole lane, plus some. Dunwich is a former by the sea town. Storms erode the chalk cliffs. The chalk falls into the sea. Some years a foot would fall in, other years thirty feet would fall in. It used to have an important natural trading harbour, but a huge storm filled it in. The tale is, Dunwich fell into the sea one stormy night. Now, in the dark of night, one can hear church bells tolling underwater. About a mile of the town is gone. John told us it took many years for it to go. And he said it was impossible to hear church bells underwater because the bells were valuable and were removed far before any of the churches fell into the sea. But it make a nice tale. It rains. We explore a museum. It is still raining when we come out. We go down to the beach to look. We cycle around, seeing if there is a grocery store. There isn't. Guess it fell into the sea. If I listen real hard, I can hear the cash registers dinging under the sea. The next town on our map has a couple more dots. Maybe one of them is a grocery store. We cycle there. The only grocery store is a combination grocery store-post office. Handy. Unfortunately, it is closed. It is still raining. We cycle off, looking for a free camp spot. We go down a dead end road which ends near some trees by a pond. We set up with a fine view of the pond. Sharon filters some water from the pond. Tastes okay to me. Not chalky at all. We are both very tired from cycle touring on the left hand of the road. Intense concentration. Sleep comes quickly. |
