On Day 1 we arrived late to Bath; on Day 2 we arrived even late, at around 11.30pm
The night before when we had cycled to Bath, we were hit by one of the largest hills we had ever experienced and had arrived late, but the mantra ‘Bath is in a valley. Bath is in a valley. Bath is in a valley’ had just about seen us through. Of course, if you descend into a valley, you have to ascend out of it. And we started the day with a 600 foot steep monster. William Blake was wrong: it should be England’s dark, satanic hills.
At the top, we did a piece to camera and decided that as there would be no swearing on the vlogs (I have yet to edit them but have all the footage – fingers crossed I can start tonight) we decided to name the different types of hills with eighteen century-sounding insults, amongst them: a rum cove (a small irritating kicker), a dastardly blackguard (one that waits for you behind a bend in the landscape and surprises you), a pox-ridden ne’er-do-well (one that has false summits), etc…
Once out of the valley, we had about 25 miles of reasonably flat plateau-like conditions with slight winds towards Malmsbury. I’d only heard of it vaguely and, although it was heaving with tourists, it is a beautiful town with an abbey right at its centre and a market cross, which is like a squat version of Chichester’s own. It also has a large mirror about 10 feet up at a right-angle in the road to allow traffic from both ways to see each other. This might seem like one of those ordinary convex mirrors but it is a large rectangular mirror well-integrated into the building. I’d just never seen anything like it before.
After a coffee in the beautiful market square surrounded by fellow cyclists, we struck out for Cirencester and the first hills did not really trouble us. Komoot led us down some beautiful lanes and the traffic was light and we made Cirencester in reasonable time to have lunch. Whilst there, we met a friendly young guy with a similar set-up – in fact some of the same equipment – who frequently takes himself off on his bike, often by himself, and just sleeps by the roadside when he needs to. Young me would have wondered if I could do the same, lead that romantic lifestyle and sleep rough by the side of the road; old me thinks he’s welcome to it!
We stopped outside the cathedral or abbey, ate lunch and then decided we needed to make some tracks. I suggested we actually ride the Fosse Way but, getting directions from locals, they said it is so busy and unpleasant they would recommend a different route. Komoot agreed…
In 2018, our navigation system was Garmin and she was a hill magnet; in 2025 we are led by Komoot, who may be Garmin in disguise. We seem to hit every hill in the Cotswolds and, although there were some glorious downhills, there were more uphills and, of course, our pace slowed.
At almost 5.20pm, just outside Stow-on-the-Wold, on the A429 that used to be the Fosse Way, I phoned Martin who tried to disguise it but was clearly shocked how little progress we had made since Cirencester. We had been cycling all day and had almost as half the distance again to travel! We fueled up and decided to use the A429. Fate gave us a 12% hill that was jammed pack with traffic who seemed to regard cyclists as irrelevant or targets – we were getting nowhere.
We consulted Komoot and followed her small roads to the beautiful Stow-on-Wold and then out through other villages, with the sun sinking and the air temperature dropping, but we were fading fast.
Malcolm suggested we stop for a meal, and after being more-or-less denied entry by a specialist dining pub and had to cycle on to The Peacock at Oxhill. As late as it was, we relished the excellent food at a really busy and friendly country pub and then set off, almost in darkness with about 27 miles to go.
Heads down, we hammered it. My back light had fallen off somewhere the previous day and our spare was drained. We stuck together as one unit, almost as close as tandem riding, and tried to put in some serious miles. But the signs to Rugby would not come.
Finally, a glorious sign emerged saying Rugby 10 miles. We funded along the darkest, straightest road, occasionally missing potholes, occasionally hitting smaller potholes, and at what point we were serenaded by owls in the woods. The road seemed to go on forever…
Finally, we hit Rugby and seem to be led through the entire town, only reaching our destination at 11.20pm on our absolute limit and a 100 miles in. Even then, we had to endure some faff with the hotel and bikes. The bed called and we obeyed.
We’re both wearing red today in celebrating of the whitewash we anticipate of the British and Irish Lions over Australia.
Supposedly, only 82 miles today and less hilly. We’ll see
Rogues of the Roman Roads 