Time for a Rest

Some days, the story writes itself. Others, I wonder what I’ll have to write.

A thick mist had fallen over the campsite during the night. The sun was trying to shine though but failing. This led to some eerie sights on some of the off-road sections of my route.

The route was uneventful. A succession of asphalted roads and double-track paths (rutted access roads). The climbs where more and more spaced out, and growing shallower. Instead of climbing 100 metres in a kilometre, the same climb would be spread across 3.

The first reasonable place for lunch was the counterexample. A village set atop a tall hill, with only steep climbs to get there. I looked at the GPS, tried to find an easier route, but eventually accepted that I would need to make the climb.

I thought I was nearly there when I turned a corner, and found myself at the bottom of a horrifficly steep cobbled road. After a token attempt at the climb, I dismounted and pushed my bicycle up.

After a stout “Sunday Roast”, and a glass of cidre, I headed onwards, down the hill.

I started feeling tired. Usually, my legs started showing weakness after 1500 metres of elevation, but today, I felt myself slow down, each climb became harder than the previous one. The weather hadn’t improved, and the mist was tunring into a drizzle.

This wasn’t fun.

I was close to Salisbury (pronounced “salsbury”). I found a cheap hotel and decided to stop there. I needed the rest.

If the cathedral in Salisbury had been enough to motivate a pair of upstanding russian citizens, with no ties to the FSB whatsoever, to go there for a whirlwind visit, I should see what all the fuss was about.