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Punk Rocker The B road we were on was fairly busy and, still being on the wide open Salisbury Plain, wasn't too scenic. We took an unclassified road to Stockton. The scenery improved immediately from flat white chalk fields to lovely hilly forest. In a tiny village we ate breakfast in a bus shelter with a thatched roof. Across the road was a large iron gate with two coats of arms and a paved drive to a mansion. Just down from us were squealing stinky pigs we caught a waft of whenever the wind changed directions. Farther on we noticed a blue bike sign for the Wiltshire cycle way. We had seen signs before as we intersected roads but since we didn't know where it went we didn't follow it. At a Y intersection we followed the route down a remarkably pretty lane that wasn't on our map. We cut off at Warminster to send mail home. Sharon wanted to send her old rain jacket. I had film. We boxed it and the weight came to 1900 grams -- the limit was two thousand. I asked for it to be sent the cheapest way. She looked at her chart and said, "Fifteen pounds." "I don't have that much," I confessed. "Well," she said, "it can go surface for £6.40, but I don't know when it will get there." I hoped it was shorter than the one we had sent from Sardinia -- that one had taken three months. Warminster had a pedestrian shopping area. We leaned our bikes against a bench under a tree and ate a package of ice cream bars. A man came by and talked to us just to hear himself. He said he was Canadian but he had a massive English accent and was wearing a Stars and Stripes jacket. He was the best this and the best that. He showed us his postcard collection. I was trying to write postcards and wasn't devoting my full attention to his rambling banter. That annoyed him, so he asked me questions to interrupt my writing. Eventually, someone came along and collected him. A guy with punk hair sat on the bench beside us. The way he had his hair painted it looked like feathers. The center row was tallest and coloured black with red horizontal slashes. A row on each side was shorter and painted black and yellow. He wore two rings, one in each nostril. A heavy chain with a brass padlock was around his neck. His earrings were safety pins. Bullet cartridges lined his waist. Army boots and a German army shirt pulled over a Metallica tee shirt completed his costume. I asked him if I could take his picture with my bike. After considering he said, "No, not with the bike." I should have followed up by asking him if I could take it without the bike. Or just have used my telephoto. Sharon said she couldn't believe he said no. "Anyone with hair like that is just begging to get their picture taken." We picked up a map for the Wiltshire Cycle route from the tourist office. A lone cyclist from Wales wanted to know if we would ride to Bath with him. He said he was going on the A roads. We told him we were taking back lanes. He didn't like back lanes because they jogged all over the place and took too long to get anywhere. Off he pedalled into traffic while Sharon and I picked up the cycle route. It was excellent, going along scenic little paths that we never would have taken. Some were back lanes that cars weren't allowed on. We swooshed down a long hill into Longleat with its safari park and one hundred forty-five room mansion. We ate at a picnic table beneath huge trees on a well tended lawn. A table of high schoolers called out, "Rode all the way from Canada!" "Yep! That Mid-Atlantic Ridge is a bitch!" I shouted back. I went into the cafeteria to get ice for my pop. The waitress led me to the bar and opened a small ice bucket. By the time she filled my water bottle, half the bucket was empty. They didn't have ice machines everywhere like in North America. They didn't sell bags of ice. With the price of electricity it must cost too much to make. As we surveyed the mansion two mountain bikers approached us. One had a flat and was pushing his bike. "Do you have a patch kit, mate?" he asked. We patched his snake bite puncture and pumped up his tire. At thirty-five pounds pressure he said he had never had it that hard before. That was probably why he had a snake bite. Leaving town we climbed up and up to a good view of the valley below before cycling through a forest park. We glimpsed the White Horse of Westbury in the distance and followed signs before climbing steeply to the horse. I pulled off in a field and walked over mounds and hillocks in the tall grass. The wind gusted mightily. I laid down to hold my camera steady. Buttercups on long stems waved in the foreground. People were mere dots on the ridge above the figure. We pushed our bikes across the sidehill to a clump of trees with a view overlooking the valley. The horse was to our right. As we laid in the grass I watched two people slide down the horse. People sure could be stupid. No wonder Stonehenge was fenced off. No doubt they would be climbing on top of Stonehenge to get their picture taken, rock climbing ropes and bolt holes marring the sides. As darkness set in, lights glimmered in the valley. Everywhere village lights pricked through the black velvet tapestry of the English countryside. I hadn't realized the countryside was so populous. Hedgerows were deceptive; they hid the houses. Camped above, I could see the closely spaced villages lined with farmhouses between. The only non-lit spaces were tiny farmer's fields. Like John had said: "America is spaces with towns; England is towns with spaces." I was seeing a graphical illustration of what he had meant. |
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