Whatsamatteryou?

That was just pure nasty.  Fer fecks sake.  The Romans for sure knew where to build towns.  Not only because they were great places for crossing rivers and so collecting taxes.  No, the other important feature was defensibility.  To keep out the local gargling tribes, whos main complaint was the price of milk and the rotten things done by Biggus Dickus to their now crosseyed daughters, all of whom had changed their names to 'Oooh Myfanwy'!

And so it goes with Hereford (Roman: Heri a Fordi) where the Roman bean counters could be heard saying: 'Taxi per favore. Watsamattayou?  Gotta no respect!  Grazie!', as the beans were deposited in their grubby mitts.

Whatsamattame?  I'll tell you what...

Its day 14 on the bike.  There's another rest day to look forward to tomorrow.  A day to let the blood return to my appendages which so far have been solid and strong at the start of every day but limp by the end.  I'm talking about my legs here of course.  Google is a fecking liar.  There is NO WAY that today's cycling was as flat as it suggested.  Little gnarly ramps all over the place.  

Just on the approaches to Hereford I'd got 50 miles under my belt on a hot sunny day and my legs were done for.  I look up and see the road take off.  Okay one more small hill for a man before a giant leap into bed.  So I thought.  The road levels.  Good.  Then it's away up towards the clouds again.  Feck!  And so this sequence continues.  For sure the Romans knew how to tire the enemy and feck them off as they approached their townships.  

My legs attempted to drop dead on me.  You know, both looked up as soon as I took the pressure off after the first ramp to relieve the numbness in my testicles.  They arched their backs and held their imaginary limp wrists to their foreheads in preparation for the great swoon.  NO you fecking don't!  I snick another gear, press down hard but there's no reply.  Steeper still!  Snick another gear!  They're back at their oar stations working hard all the way up to ramming speed, just before collapsing at the top of the hill, something like this.  Note my left knee dropping dead just before the end...

Followed by a final 3 miles sweeping run down out of the hills into Hereford.  Finally!   But again one more 10 percenter on the edge of the city.  Thanks.  Just what I was looking for.

I also arrived the other day at a place called Hamner in the Welsh hills and went into the only shop in the village.   I was the only cyclist in the village but unlike their only gay - Daffyd - I was NOT dressed in tight pink lycra.   I'm sat beside the mere watching a moorhen as he swam with some determination across it for the 7th time, I imagine grumbling under its breath, 'yeah, i'll go to the fecking shrops again for another half pound of fecking weed'.  Ah, married life eh? 

Because I am travelling the back lanes there are few shrops, sorry shops, and NO cafes.  I cruise along in the cool morning sunshine with an oh so gentle wind in my face.  Sometimes I ride close to the edge of the road. I feel the soft caress of the tall grasses brush my left shin and left hand.  Lovely.  With my eyes momentarily closed in the loveliness of it all I fail to spot the outcrop of nettles.  Aaarrgghh!

The Post Office in Hanmer though was trying to serve every local need.  Home made sarnies wrapped - like Daffyd - tight in edgeless cling film.  So I have two of those and two of the other edible things on display and note that they also do hot drinks.  It's 11.45 so there's still time to fit in elevensies before lunch number 1 comes around isn't there? 

The dry and bottled stuff gets dropped in a pannier.  'I'm sorry we have no lids' says Daffyd's mum from the kitchen as she hands me a steaming cup of tea which only has sufficient milk in it to kill the rolling boil.  It's topped to the brim in a feeble and quickly disintegrating paper cup. 

Everything here is uphill - with gnarly potholes which look something like this.  

Yeah, big feckers!  Don't hit one of them, Wayne.  The fact is that the roads here have a fantastical variation in condition.  From the long long oh so smooth as silk downhill on the A49 out of the Shropshire hills.  A road for sure put down by a fussy Formula 1 team.  A road where the traffic comes as though doing laps.  One moment nowt. One minute later a pile up of fast cars and trucks attempting to pass me in the hairpin bend.  Then again nowt.  To the manky broken gravelly crapness along sections of the A4110; leftover practice roads from the Roman invasion.

As well as these there are high kerbs with uncut golden grass verges all over the place with a pungent smell.  Hmmm.  Reminds me of something.  I leave the Post Office and unhitch my mule to cross the road.  Here I am trying to cross with a steaming hot drink whilst pushing a wobbily mule across the wonky landscape..

Aaaarrrgh!  Scald!  Burn!  Ooohh me poor pinkies.  I can't do a damn thing about it as there's no way I can put the cup down whilst I wrestle with Myfanwy.  There's not a level surface anywhere and there's a huge risk of Myfanwy collapsing on top of my face if I dared to Ben Dover.  Oh the horror.  

Half a cup of tea later and with a bellyfull of clingfilm and cheese I set off again.  Into punchy hill climbs and lanes swarming with huge tractor wildebeests dragging their arses full of sileage across the Welsh veldt.  For all I know it might just be one of the non-locals going around in circles unable to find the grass bagging factory or get out of town.  They all looked the same to me.  

But I'm done for.  Even the early lunch today at the Yew Tree pub which opened early so that it could feed the starving Yorkshireman just could not take the tiredness off of my day today.  

Finally I arrive at the BnB and cannot get in.  Cos no one is here.  Except one elderly lady resident who in response to my eagre ringing of bells unlocked the front door, stuck her head around it and said 'Can I help?'.  I explained how I was booked in and desparate for the toilet.  She listened carefully but all she then did was to fraily say, 'I'm sorry but I'm only a guest', then slowly closed and locked the door!  What the feck!

Apparently all entry procedures were sent to me by email just before my arrival.  Which is fecking useless to a man who only has a dying featurephone to hand; and, any other person who may not yet be fully integrated into the modern socialistic on line mobile media driven world.  

I chain the mule to the rack in the garden and take the snarling bag of dog slight off of it.  Tomorrow is a rest day and an opportunity to put the snarling bag through the laundrette.  I scour the internet for a place that does self service washes... 

Cos for sure there's NO WAY I'm handing my cycling grundies to a stranger.

Not even a Roman!

Ciao for now..