I crossed the Severn bridge into Wales, near the town of Chepstow. By this time it was dark, but I'd picked up a foot-long Subway in Bristol so I was OK for food and just needed a place to make camp.

One of the first things I noticed was that all the road signs were bilingual, which reminded of New Zealand. A lot of the names which already look well Celtic have alternative (and even more Celtic!) Welsh names.

I asked some locals where to go and they directed me to a campsite "just down the road, by the racecourse". It was neither, but their directions were enough to get me on my way. I saw a couple of lads walking the country road (in search of pub), and asked them and they told me to just climb over the gate at the campsite they were at. I did so and pitched tent in the dark, my headlamp making this not such hard work. I slept very well and rose, showered etc in the morning before packing & sneaking out the gate, and setting off on my way onward to Brecon.

I rolled into Chepstow and managed to find a Somerfields supermarket. I unloaded all of my bicycle luggage :- bar bag, 2 x panniers and tent - into a shopping trolley and took them in with me. I managed to find a pretty good vegan breakfast of cold soup, wholemeal buns, a can of V8 and loads of fruit. I also bought some homous and other bits for lunch/dinner. I then got on my way, heading for Abergavenny, which was the major town on the way to Brecon.

Boy was it hilly! Some of the hills just out of Chepstow were very taxing and I was thinking there'd be no way I'd keep this up all day. Keep in mind, when your bike is loaded up like mine it weighs at least 2-3 times its normal weight and it doesn't help when you pack a carton of soya milk and don't even open it the whole journey! On what I remember as being the worst hill I creaked and groaned past some locals who said "better you than me, mate!". Indeed. I had a belly-full of food which probably made it worse than it would have been. I think I got quite used to it after that, but I came to resent the big downhills, knowing I'd have to regain that precious altitude around the next crook in the valley. Brecon, you see, is in the Brecon Beacons national park, in the hill country. To give you an idea of the lay of the terrain, it's kind of corrugated, like parts of Scotland, or the Lake District, or the King Country (for New Zealand readers). On, I wound and undulated my way, toward Abergavenny, taking in many small villages, and the town of Usk, which had what I thought looked to be a nice castle on the main street; on closer inspection it turned out to be a prison, but hey...

I found many blackberries lining the country lanes and made regular stops to devour them - but then I probably missed a few - so if you're going over... I also found a plum tree and apple tree and took a few for the road. Delightful!

I made it to Abergavenny, fairly knackered, but knowing I was only about half-way to Brecon and had to be at or near Brecon by next morning. I cycled around Abergavenny a little, trying to find the way onwards, and saw a fellow cycle tourer cruise past taking the 'A' road to Brecon (for those outside the UK, 'A' roads are all numbered and are arterial and usually dual-carriageways. I looked at my map and saw that the NCN route began with a very steep hill, so I turned around and followed the other tourer, surmising (incorrectly) that he was also on his way to Brecon.

I caught him not far on, where he was on the side of the road, with his wheel off and at work sewing up his pannier! I asked him if he needed a hand and changed his tyre tube for him. He said it was the 16th time he'd had to mend the pannier, but that it was only his 3rd puncture. He had biked from Munich, South Germany, coming through Holland and into Calais, France where he picked up a ferry to Dover (cheaper than a ferry from Holland!). And he'd crossed from Dover in SE England into Wales taking in loads of places in between. He was riding something in the region of 80-90 miles (120-150 km) a day, and camping at lakes and reservoirs so he had somewhere to wash - and for free. He was living on a diet of pasta and sauce and not much else because he didn't have much money. I was blown away, and the craziest bit was that the guy was a schoolboy of just 16 and spoke a fairly broken, although passable, English.

We rode on together a bit before he made a turning toward the next lake on his map. I continued on into Brecon, stopping to refill my water bottles at public toilets as I went. On arrival I looked for obvious signs of the castle but there were none. I re-read the directions I'd printed out before leaving and realised that the castle was halfway between Brecon & Swansea, i.e. about 20 miles on! It was darkening and er, latening, and after much vacillating I decided to dammit and just get on the road to Swansea.

Before long it was dark and I was high in the lonely hills. The occasional car drove past, the occupants almost audibly muttering to themselves and bemusedly shaking their heads at this lone crazy cyclist night-riding in the middle of nowhere. I rode on with my head lamp and flashing red rear light. Just as I was starting to really question what the hell I was doing cycling, alone, in the Welsh hill country at 11 pm, I saw a reservoir (private property), and after brief consideration opened the gate and rolled straight in and down the steep driveway. Seeing a narrow, shallow valley (a dry riverbed) running beneath a bridge on the driveway, I stealthily climbed a fence and sought a camping spot in this sheltered space. Finding a good flat area with not too many stones I went back to the fence and lifted my bike and luggage over it. Then I crept back and pitched tent before falling into a slumber of impenetrable depths.

On the road again then, and after rising to the top of the next ridge it was a nice long downhill for the next 4-5 miles, carrying me down into the next valley. I managed to coast comfortably to 40 mph and was excited to see the turrets of the castle peeking at me from between trees near the base of the valley...

Green Man Festival website

I bought a ticket, stashed my gear, changed into my leisure get-up and made my way in. The attractions of the festival were mostly situated inside the spacious rooms of the castle, and consisted of a "folky dokey" stage, a "main" stage, a cinema, a theatre and various other spaces in the grounds, each with entertainments. I mostly hovered around the two stages. Almost all of the music was melodic, mellow, unplugged, melancholic and yet heart-warming. The kind of thing that is so life-affirming on a cold mid-Autumn's afternoon indoors. King Creosote was a great showman, gifted with a faux-swaggering Scottish wit, and played a lovely accordion to boot. Christopher Rees had a soaring, string-backed, melancholic sound and a voice somewhat akin to that of Richard Ashcroft of The Verve. In the Blues Cafe I tore a tiny and incomplete map of South Wales from a tourist brochure. Later I joined in on a Ceilidh (pronounced 'Kay-lee', meaning Celtic country dancing) jam with some other musicians - myself on harmonica which I played somewhat meekly in their presence. The Ceilidh was very nice - there was a flautist, a lute-player, bongos, a couple of accoustics, and another chap who just whipped out a pair of bagpipes he had on him and gave us a few tunes, and played harmonica in a way that put my playing in the shade. One of the last acts I caught was James Yorkston, whose sound, song and intimate stage presence found its mark in my wee heart. The Castle clock had already tolled midnight by the time I gathered my stuff.

Then I was on my way again, declining the offer to give up £40 for a night in the castle I decided to go down the road a little and camp by the river. Finding a suitable field I parked bike and climbed over to do a recce of suitable pitching spots. About midway across the field I heard a growl resembling that of a dog, and seeing dark shapes moving in the gloom (do you know how dark it gets in the countryside?), I turned tail and ran back to the fence, fearing a well-muscled 'career' jaw was about to clamp shut around a calf muscle at any second. I climbed over and rode a few miles back up the road past the castle and onto the cheap (£1.50) nearby campsite, pitched and slept again.

The next morning I knew would be a good day when it began with a soundtrack of Belle & Sebastian, courtesy of my friendly neighbouring campers. After fixing up the farmer, Swansea seemed the obvious destination so I rolled down the Upper Swansea valley, aiming to head West toward the lovely beach of renown at Pendine. As I glided past my would-have-been camping spot, I noted with amusement that the 'dark shapes' were in fact a pair of black ponies; and with some relief that there was a large digger at work in the field. Passing quickly through Swansea and onto the beach-side cycle path, I rolled westward. Deterred somewhat by the weather forecast, I made it only as far as the busy Mumbles beach, quickly changed into my boxers when noone was looking, and ran on in. I spent about half an hour jumping about and just floating on the saline water, but the menace in the gathering cloud soon had me on my bike again, stealing furtive glances at the darkening canopy above.

Heading West from Mumbles I became lost in a maze of coastal roads flanked by posh houses with nice gardens, and to my chagrin, just enough people about to frustrate my desire to eat the fruit of their trees. Less than enthused by the increasingly likely prospect of all weather touring, I made up my mind to retreat from the coming weather and head back to England. You know your holiday is over when your mind becomes preoccupied with the things you want to do when you get back home. I turned and made my way back through Swansea, and after a little (but unfortunately, not a lot of) careful consideration selected Methyr Tydfil to be my place of rest that evening. Methyr Tydfil was one of the coal and iron-rich areas of Wales, though these industries are now of course in decline. My tourist brochure map showed there to be a huge lake situated there, and the fact that the weather was forecast to attack mostly the South of Wales seemed reason enough to head Northeast.

By the time I left Swansea I'd already ridden 50 miles that day, and the fact that the ensuing journey was almost entirely uphill made for hard going. I'm sure some of the choice words I'd utter upon rounding this corner, or clearing that rise, to see yet another hill, might still be heard echoing around those green valleys. My rest stops became more and more frequent as darkness fell, but somehow, with promises to self of orgiastic gastronomic indulgence on my return to London, I made it up there. I didn't see any lake or for that matter any body of water - perhaps it had been moved? Tempted to roll down into the town, but dissuaded by the returning ascent, I found a bit of wild land near the Cardiff road and hunted for a flat area with no stones. I found a suitable spot, needing a bit of landscape gardening to deal with the thistles, but nicely hidden from view of the nearby footbridge by fortuitously placed bushes. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction that I'd picked a tent in a deep olive drab, which blends so well with all things leafy and woody. I took another night of deep, deep sleep, thankful for another night free of the asthmatic taxis and whining scooters that prowl menacingly about my central London flat at all hours.

The morning saw me heading South-East for Newport, down the Rhymney valley, and passing through a number of pretty mountain villages vaguely reminescent of Alpine ones. I enjoyed coasting along through these quaint wee places, singing as I went (I tend to sing on downhills - it comes naturally for some reason). However, the return journey had by now become less of the enjoyable tour it had started out as, and more of a labour of necessity: the race against the weather; the wear and tear on sensitive crotch; the food situation, and ye olde 'email anxiety' (must... check... email...) were creeping into my thoughts too often. I could have gotten a train back to Bristol I guess but didn't, so obviously it wasn't unpleasant enough to make me actually consider spending any dosh. Nonetheless, I kept my eyes firmly on the road as I passed through Newport. I took the old Chepstow road, passing a castle or two, then the campsite where I'd spent my first night, before finally reaching the Severn bridge and crossing back into England. As I crossed, and a couple of hours after leaving Newport, a resident and former friend of mine (hehe!) called to give me her phone number and address for the meeting we'd loosely pre-arranged. I had to pay a bike fare of £3 on top of my ticket, but the train to London Paddington was speedy and I slept some. All the journey back I'd been promising myself an entire carton of Tofutti (vegan ice cream) and a Tofu & Ale pie at Mildreds, so I made sure to attend the latter on my way back from Paddington station.

Now as I write, two days later, I am happy to report that I have ingested most of the foodstuffs I promised myself in my mountain milieux, and that I can sit down again and am already watching the weather and trying to decide where to go next.

I estimate the total journey was slightly over 300 miles, with four days of riding and the one 'rest day' at the festival. So next time you want a break, don't take the easy way out and ride with those polluting metal birds, the Easyjet or the Ryanair - choose adventure over cash-backed comfort. Get on your bikes, slackers!

love, Ash

Cast and crew: