Wrinkly cyclists and threadbare shorts. Frome to Bristol. Day 3

Hazily awoke to another sunny day. Distinct lack of sleep due to chatty, nocturnal teenage DOE girls camping nearby, but by 8am with a belly full of porridge, I was back on old sturdy peddling furiously to conquer the first hill. 

I spent the first part of the morning undertaking some sort of unspoken race with a jogger. He managed to reach the top of the hill ahead of me however, once I summited,  quick as a flash I steamed past him on the descent. Thinking I had thoroughly left him in my wake, I sluggishly rolled up the next hill only to feel the rush of air beside me as he flew past again! 

Overtaken by a runner! Oh the shame of it all.

After a few more episodes of this I finally put some distance between us and took a break to refuel at the top of yet another hill. As I munched on the                                                                                                 cereal bar given to me by Aunty Cathy, whom                                                                                               should I spot bounding towards me?

                                                                                         The bugger overtook me AGAIN!

Rolling fields, burnt orange Somerset soil, scorching sun, and curious cows.

So far on the journey, myself and old sturdy had conquered every hill. No matter how slowly we crawled I was determined not to put my feet down  and walk.

On the approach to Bath after posing by a  'Cotswolds’ sign (I’m pretty sure I was nowhere near the Cotswolds and it was a sign-maker's idea of a joke?), the steepest hill you ever did see loomed ahead of me.  Four turns of the pedals was enough for me to realise that there was no way I was going to bike up that beast.

 Bath to Bristol canal path provided me with some relief from the somerset hills. 

The canal path was heaving with throngs of fellow cyclists, though none with quite as much baggage as I had. I attracted rather a lot of attention and one curious ageing cyclist came alongside (and unfortunately slightly ahead of) me. 

He asked me where I was headed and the all the other sorts of questions I would soon get used to being asked. It would have been most pleasurable chatting to him had it not been for the fact that he'd obviously owned his lycra cycling shorts for the majority of his very long biking life. As a result, the seat of his shorts were more than a little threadbare. It was hard to answer his firing questions with his revealed wrinkly crevasse in my field of view.

Reaching Bristol in a sweaty sticky mess all I needed now was to locate Sam and Steve's house in Clifton. How hard could it be?  Very.

I've come to realise that I can make my way across a whole county, but faced with a city I lose all sense of direction,  Panic and get lost. When I finally reached a clean and gleaming Sam and Steve they asked

 “Which way did you come through Bristol?”

“Erm… I’m not sure…but I went up constitution hill”

“Constitution hill?” they replied dumbstruck, “that’s probably the steepest hill in Bristol!”

Note to self: Work on city navigation skills.

Cider and sun on the Clifton downs, hearty food and wonderful company.

Daily total: 37.5 miles