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Welsh Welcome In the early morning four walkers passed our site. The British were great walkers and had superbly developed calf muscles to show for it. We headed toward the two mile suspension bridge across the Severn River. Bikes had a special lane. We followed signs, but got lost and ended up, of all places, going east on the M4 freeway towards London. The road we needed to get to was fenced off. Getting into Wales was proving more difficult than we had imagined. We hoisted our bikes over the guard railing and went down to the road we wanted, then lifted our bikes around an end section of a chest-high fence. Sharon got seriously tangled up with stinging nettles. Huge white welts broke out on her legs. Across the bridge in Cardiff we hit the supermarket then laid in the shade eating chocolate ice cream liberally sprinkled with cinnamon near an old castle next to the tourist info. Three elderly cyclists on Cannondales arrived. They were inside exploring the cool walls of the castle when Sharon and I headed up the steep path into the sweaty afternoon. At a gas station I stopped to fill our fuel bottle. The attendant refused, stating it was against the law to sell less than two liters. He said the pump wasn't accurate below that amount. "If it's not accurate for under two liters, it's not accurate for over two liters either," Sharon told him. I offered to pay for two liters. "No. It's against the law," he maintained. That was what I called a Welsh welcome to Wales. They were just picking up where the Belglums had left off. |
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