Kent to Land's End: Day 2 - A Cacophony of Zips

Campsites are odd places. It's almost as if they have their own language. A cacophony of zips, someone coming or going. It's a very satisfying sound, a zip. My nights sleep was average, I woke at 4, which set a theme for the week. I awoke with the birds. I fell in and out of sleep until I clambered, rather cumbersomely, out of my tent at around 9. It took an age to pack all my things together and be on the road again.

I hit the road with no knowledge of how far away I'd be in a few hours. Without really knowing the terrain ahead. I was on a road where I could afford to take it easy, slow down and look around. I crossed the River Wylye, a solitary swan swam upstream. Yellowhammers were singing perched atop high hedgerows, occasionally they'd fall down into the lane, and on my approach fly back up. I wasn't sure what they were at first, I can't remember ever seeing one. But once I knew, they were unmistakeable. They look like sparrows that have dunked their heads in bright yellow paint.

The River Wylye

I flanked the estate of Longleat, made a long fast and winding descent where I shortly reached Somerset, each county sign a milestone along my route. I was by now deep in the heart of the county. I was within the Mendip district, where the hills bunch up and rise higher as they travel north, luckily, I was headed west. I passed through the village of Batcombe. It was teaming with stone cottages and high stone walls, the epitome of the picturesque English village. As I left it behind I climbed up and shortly entered Westcombe, and then Evercreech.

In Evercreech I sat down on the pavement leaning against the shop scoffing a chicken wrap I'd just bought. I received a few funny looks, bemused smiles. One of those smiles asked where I was off to. The Somerset accent has to be the best of all I heard. I told her of my destination. A way to go yet, she replied. I liked it when people asked what I was doing. I started to realise I looked a little out of place.

I began to see signs for Glastonbury, so I began to look around for Glastonbury Tor. I eventually saw it from the coastal plain of the Somerset Levels, which appeared to have completely recovered from last years devastating winter floods. A digger worked one of the irrigation channels that lined the patchwork of fields, some of which the home to many a cow. I rode the last of the small flat straight roads, and turned right and was met with a, 'ROAD AHEAD CLOSED' sign...

Glastonbury Tor in the distance

I worked out my detour, which didn't add much distance. And in a way it worked out for me as its closure emptied the road of cars. The roads again began to undulate. I stopped at a crossroads of lanes where a girl was cursing her bike on an incline, her gears jammed. I offered my help and suggested she rode downhill. The gear consequently clicked into place and ran smoothly. She then asked me for directions, as if I looked like a local. I looked at my map and pointed her in the right direction.

The next section of the days ride wasn't the best, I rode along big roads to and through Taunton, where on the other side I began to think about somewhere to camp. The one I headed for was in a place called Waterrow on the border of Somerset and Devon. On my way I looked for somewhere to eat, somewhere I never found. I still had cereal bars to keep me going. The last climb of the day, including an alpine-esque switchback, was one of the highest of the trip. A 1 mile 6% climb between sheep filled green hills.

On my arrival to the campsite I saw that reception was closed. I opened a gate and rang the bell (it was an actual bell). A friendly chap answered, I'd interrupted his tea, but he didn't seem to mind. He was very welcoming, showed me the facilities and my pitch, which had a putting green quality. My stomach started to churn, and very quickly I felt very bad, I headed for the loo whilst trying to look like I was OK. A cold sweat came over me and if it wasn't for me sitting down I felt like I would have hit the ground.

My cosy tiny tent

It soon passed and I lay in my tent for a while, looking up at the sky. Feeling utterly zonked after 88 miles and 4000ft of climbing. I was keeping up my plan of 80-100 miles a day; I enjoyed looking at all the stats and numbers of the rides. The night was cold and I didn't sleep well. I tried to count literal sheep that I could hear baaing like a metronome above the River Tone down in the tree thick valley, just next to where I was attempting sleep.

When the time came to prepare for another day I scrambled out of my tent to a cloudless sky and a scorching sun. My fleeting neighbour offered me tea which I declined as I just wanted to get going. We chatted about my adventure, and also his past tribulations with his bicycle. I chatted again to a lady as we watched the nesting swallows of the campsite's barn. Day 3 was going to be a hot one.