We made very good time from second lunch to the foot of the dreaded Pentre Hodre which is approached via very narrow country lanes. I detected an air of apprehension if not downright panic among the group as we sped along and contemplated what was just ahead of us. Now whether it was an unconscious defence at work or some kind of Freudian slip I know not, but what I do know is that I shot right past the right-hand turn that would take me to the foot of the monster climb. I hadn’t gone far before I realised that the others had turned off and so I turned around, rode the few couple of yards back and then turned left. Because the turn is a sharp one and therefore you have to slow down to take it, there is no opportunity to get a run at the hill. The first section is very steep indeed, probably around 20%. Now I don’t know if it was the fact that I was faced with the reality of the climb, which seemed even worse than I had remembered from 2013, but as soon as I turned left, I felt the urgent need to pee. So, I got off my bike and watched the others struggling off into the far distance whilst I watered the hedge. To add insult to injury it began to rain, so I put on my waterproof jacket. I had no chance of managing the first part of the climb from a standing start and so I started to trudge up the hill pushing my bike. At times progress was so slow that my speedometer was not registering anything. It stopped raining just as I reached a part of the climb which I had half a chance of riding up due to the gradient easing a little, so I took off my waterproof, mounted my bike and began to pedal. It started to rain again, so I stopped, dismounted and put my waterproof back on. I remounted and continued up the climb. Soon after this I was passed by a tractor the driver of which had a child perched on his lap who was pretending to steer the tractor; well at least I think she was pretending, as due to the narrowness of the lane there was not much room for error. As they passed the driver commented on the state of the weather. I grunted a reply. Shortly after my meeting with the tractor the gradient increased sharply causing me to get off and walk once more.
The last part of the climb I was able, due to the gradient easing off at bit, to mount my bike and so I was at least on the bike when I caught up with the others waiting for me at the top of the climb. I was greeted by congratulations that I had made it. I didn’t like to let on that I had walked up at least part of this monster of a hill. Whether they guessed that or not and were just being kind to the old man I known not. It’s an exhausting climb either on a bike or off it, but the view at the top is spectacular even when the weather is inclement.
The great view was a little way from the actual summit and so there was a little more climbing to do, but it was very gentle and eventually gave way to a steep descent into the village of Clun. Just as we reached the outskirts of Clun we came upon a shallow stream with a ford in the road. I think we must have come a different way into the village in 2013 because I didn’t remember the ford at all. Just in front of the ford was a large warning sign announcing to would be travellers to beware as the road through the stream was very slippery. Ollie entered first without stopping to read the sign, got about halfway across and, when the initial momentum of his speedy entrance was slowed by the water pressure, his bike went spectacularly from under him and he ended up in the drink. Scott, who had stopped on the bank and was filming the crossing started bellowing with laughter. Sam entered next, a little more tentatively, only to suffer the same fate. I was the third to arrive and having seen the downfall of Ollie and Sam decided not to tempt fate or the dubious superstition which claims “third time lucky”. I screeched to a halt and stopped just in time. Deciding to learn by the experience of my two soggy compatriots, I read the notice and proceeded with great care on foot pushing my bike. About halfway across I slipped but managed to stay upright thus maintaining my dignity albeit with very wet feet. When I got across, I found Scott, still laughing like a drain, on the other side of the stream. When he finally composed himself, he asked with a grin, “Didn’t you guys see the bridge?” Sure enough a few yards from the ford was a bridge.
In various states of disarray, we rode into Clun and found a pub and had a couple of beers whilst we waited for Julia and Jo to join us. We were also joined by the Mr and Mrs Bowtell, members of COGS congregation, who have a house in Clun and divide their time between it and their other house in Tadworth. They had also joined us two years previously. Having supped the local brew and dried out a bit we made our way to the local YHA where we were booked in for the night.
Ezekiel's Wheels 