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Doggone I heard bagpipes wafting down the hillside through the fog. I went into a small country store. The milk was in glass bottles. "Is that about half a liter?" I enquired. "No Sir," the woman said. "That's a full pint." I bought a bushel of Weetabix to go with my pint of milk. The sunny day was already hot with the thermometer climbing steadily to thirty degrees Celsius. We found a peaceful shady spot along the Usk River for breakfast. Then we wandered along back lanes through Brecon National Park to intersect with the Taff Trail -- a bike route that had started in Cardiff. We followed it to the country town of Brecon. In Brecon a geeky guy with flipped up sunglasses pointed to our bikes. "Would you use those again?" he asked. Sharon and I looked at one another before answering, trying to figure out what he meant. "Are you English?" he asked. "No," we answered. "Can you speak English?" "A little," we answered in unison. "My son just finished a trip in France and Italy. He said he won't use those straps you have again. In the rain they lose all elasticity. How have you found them?" "We haven't had any problems," Sharon said. "Well, I guess not lately," he commented, wiping his brow. "Not ever," Sharon said. "My son says money is the hardest part. What do you do?" "We sell a house," I said. We found a park. Lying on our orange tarp in the shade of a tree, eating our daily quota of ten Revels, dog ran over, lifted its leg and started to pee. I moved my foot just before the stream commenced. I thought that was carrying the animosity between dogs and cyclists a tad too far. We got lost and ended up in a farmer's yard. No kidding. The road ended in front of the barn. While surveying the sight, a woman and her son came out of the house. We asked directions. They told us we had to go back down and turn right at the bottom. The little boy was holding a bridle. "Are you going riding?" Sharon asked him. "He's getting a pony today and we're waiting for it to be delivered," his mother answered. "Have you named him yet?" I wanted to know. "Shu-gah," the mother said in her English accent. We went back down the road and turned right as they instructed on a road that looked less well maintained than the one we had chosen. After a few kilometers Sharon got a flat tire. She leaned her bike against a gate and removed the back wheel. We were almost finished when an old man came over. "That gate wasn't built with that in mind," he said. "Sorry," Sharon immediately apologized and went to move her bike off the gate. We had become used to being told off by Welshmen. "Oh, it's all right," he said. "I mean I never thought I would see a bike on these back lanes. I used to ride one when I was young but now I've got a car. I was driving by one day and I saw a sign advertising these four lots for sale," he waved his hand at his property, "so I bought them and built these two bungalows. Want to have a look around?" he invited. "Sure," Sharon said. The elderly gentleman took us on a guided tour of his garden. The first of the peas were almost ready to be picked. Potatoes were ready. He had a large backyard with two bird baths, lilac bushes, an ash tree, rhododendrons and roses. A creek, lined with cypress bush, ran along the back edge of his property. "One day I was working in the backyard," he told us, "when all of a sudden some type of fly zoomed out of the creek and bit me on the corner of my mouth." He pointed an index finger to his lip. "I spent a year in the hospital. It knocked me lulu. The nurses would find me wandering around the hospital grounds in my pyjamas." I glanced uneasily towards the creek. We had planned on making it to the Usk reservoir that night, but we passed an inviting creek with a walking path along the edge and decided to check it out. Pushing open a gate, we rode through a tiny crick to another gate. It was quiet. We set the tent on a grassy knoll, then Sharon swam in the reflecting water of the stream. Tiny schools of fish darted between rocks as I waded through the shallows. We had a problem with flies getting into the tent through the door we had open for cooking so we made like the French and opened both doors so they could fly right though. |
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