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Free Range Eggs Brushed up the long grass where the tent had been and retraced the footpath back along the dark tea-coloured water to the double arched rock bridge. The local grocer in Sennybridge served up fresh buns and more milk in glass bottles. He stood behind a counter with tinned goods piled on the shelves behind him. I asked him the prices of what I wanted to buy. Canned peaches held my interest. We swung off the flat A road onto a brutally steep one lane unclassified road that soon had Sharon muttering: "What's wrong with A roads?" We were heading for the Usk reservoir for breakfast. The road continued upwards. We panted and sweat in the already humid air like a couple of old hunting dogs. We followed roads which felt like the right direction until we hit a spot named Crai. I consulted the map. Crai, of all things, was a dead-end village . There was a church. "Do you want to eat breakfast on the church steps?" I enquired politely to a profusely sweating beet red Sharon. "I want to eat by water, not some stinky old church," Sharon lashed out, wiping sweat from her forehead. "There may be art..." I called out to a rapidly disappearing backside. Downhill from Crai was much quicker than our slow climb to it had been. It wasn't long before we stopped at a bridge over a small stream. We couldn't hear any traffic. "The Flatlanders (the cyclists we had met in Holland) mustn't have tried too hard to find a place in Europe where they could go and not hear traffic," Sharon said. We sat on the bridge wall for half an hour and not one living soul passed. We continued toward Usk, this time watching the map carefully. At a Y junction Sharon asked if we went right. The map showed the left going a ways farther and then turning right. We went left. The already one lane road narrowed slightly past a farmhouse complete with barking dog. We came to a closed gate across the road. We opened it and went through. The paved road continued through a pasture. Some cows looked up with a mildly amused expressions before going back to chewing. We came to the end of the pasture and opened another gate. The pavement continued. I prayed that the road wasn't going to end in another farmer's yard. I rechecked the map. "Yep, we must be right here," I said, pointing to a stream on my map. We crossed the stream. Another gate was beside a farmhouse. The paved road turned to dust and rock. "I'll wait here while you check," Sharon said. The road went past the farmhouse, through yet another gate, then up a hill, around a corner and out of sight. "The road continues," I convinced Sharon, surveying my trusty map. The incredibly steep "road" became a jumble of rocks. We got off and began pushing our bikes. Three-quarters of the way up, sweating profusely in the humid air, Sharon leaned her bike against the road bank. I did likewise. I walked the remainder of the way to the top and was greeted by another gate. My prayers had been answered. The road didn't end in a farmer's yard. It was worse. Sheep and cows were in the pasture beyond with road ruts higher than my front panniers. I plunked myself down and reflected on the miserable injustice of it all -- even when I followed the map I still ended up lost. "We should stay on the primary strata from now on," Sharon said. "The itinerary is only a statement of intent, not a promise," I told her. We decided to go back. I gathered my strength to hold my bike from running away on the downhill. We went back through the gates, opening and closing each one behind us, past the cows, who looked up with a smug expression on their face. "I knew you were lost." Out the gate at the bottom past the farmhouse, complete with barking dog. Ah, shaddup. We passed a sign: Usk reservoir 3 1/2 -- actually pointing in the direction we were travelling. I was beginning to have serious doubts the reservoir existed. At a parking area with picnic tables I pulled in. A tiny car with all four doors and its trunk were flung wide open. It appeared as though the vehicle had a sudden fit of car sickness and puked its four occupants onto the gravel. There was a middle-aged couple with two elderly women. "We saw you yesterday by the Craddoc golf course," the youngest woman declared. "Yes, we were lost there too," I confirmed. Learning we were cycling around the world, the smallest and most withered woman smiled. She held up her cane, shook it mightily and instructed: "Do it now!" "By the way," I casually enquired, "where is the Usk reservoir?" "Oh," the man said, "just back up the road you came down, a quarter mile to the left. You just missed it." Thanking them, we turned around and laboriously pumped up the hill. Turning left we came to the reservoir. It proved the old adage correct once again: "Usk and you shall receive." We found a quiet shady spot at the end of the land and had a belated brunch. At five o'clock we managed to persuade ourselves to continue. Mainly due to the fact that we had no food. There were many trees around that looked like good camping. We stopped at a house advertising Free Range Eggs. I picked up a half dozen in case all the stores were closed by the time we found them. The eggs weren't free. The road along the top of the park was desolate and wind blown. Sheep grazed on waving bunches of brown grass. We decided we didn't need a store after all. We could make egg sandwiches. We went to a country park and ate while watching doves and peacocks. As the reddish-orange sun vanished behind hazy clouds we pulled our bikes into the nearly impenetrable woods. Why did they plant trees so close together when they reforested? Didn't they know they were going to grow? Sharon found a clearing under a preserved oak tree that had been missed by the woodcutters. A wall of evergreens enclosed it. We set up beneath its old spreading boughs and wished a light breeze could penetrate those conifers. |
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