One Man. One Bike. One Dream.

Rosie, meet everyone. Everyone, meet Rosie ...

Beautiful, isn’t she? Beautiful yet fierce, as Derbyshire was evidently quick to recognise upon our departure from Yorkshire. 

Rosie and I had become close since we found each other at the tail end of 2012; and having wandered the Peaks multiple times, ridden each other to exhaustion during, and shared the same bedroom (really) for so many months, we decided it was time for her to meet the family. So I decided that, as it was coincidentally my 25^th birthday on the 21^st of April, we would set off on the 300-mile journey together from my current abode in Sheffield to my family home in South Wales. Laying over at four houses, a B&B and a canal boat en route; and sharing our unorthodox love with a grand total of 18 relatives along the way. 

So, having completed my shift at work on Monday the 15^th of April 2013, we set off on the charm offensive. I eased into my newly bought cycling leggings, packed the pannier bag with the trip’s essentials (protein shakes and all), checked Rosie was adequately lubricated and set off in the 15C heat of the freshly sprung spring.

We had two nights to ourselves before encountering the family; staying the first at a B&B in Whaley Bridge before hustling a decent 50 miles over to Chester for the Tuesday evening. Whaley Bridge was a pleasure – tucking into a three-course Indian meal, conversing with the B&B’s owner Jean and getting a comfy kip before thoroughly enjoying the copious amounts of maple syrup she had shipped over from Canada with porridge for breakfast prior to departure.

The cycle through the level topography of Cheshire onwards to Chester, although a full 50 miles in distance, proved to be a breeze in comparison to the hilly routes navigated through the Peaks in blustery conditions a day earlier. We even made a friend for half an hour or so, catching up with 67-year-old cycling veteran John, who was wandering in the same direction as ourselves. I complimented his enduring stamina. He asked me the same questions multiple times. We took a photo together. And here we are in complementary colours, with Rosie’s thumbs-up making an appearance in the bottom left ...

We said farewell upon parting our separate ways, and a few hours later (sandwiched by a cheeky burrito-and-ale lunch in Northwich) we arrived in Chester to meet our Couchsurfing host Paul for the night. Paul lives in a floating corridor – otherwise known as a canal boat – that he renovated himself in his work as a canal boat manufacturer. I had always said I wanted to go canal, yet Rosie was opposed to the idea until she romanticised over the boat floating on the River Dee. Suddenly we were ragdolling like Rosie and Jim. But with more alcohol ... Paul had strategically moored up within easy reach of Chester’s prime jazz and blues music venue, so the night was spent with weary legs at the bar, drinks in hand, entertained by some easy listening and story-telling from our respective South American travels. The subsequent hangover was offset by a hearty bowl of porridge, and Paul toured me around Chester’s Roman city walls prior to introducing me to a beastly bargain roast dinner at his local greasy spoon for a mere £4! We trudged back to the boat, saw some swans, and speculated upon future travels from the comfort of the boat’s sofa before packing up once more and saying farewell the right way: with a photograph [Editor's note: Rosie’s absence once more is down to her undoubted talent as tour photographer].

So there we were. The anxiety building as we rode the afternoon’s 30-mile scenic stretch west towards North Wales via the beauty of Delamere Forest, with our first family encounter awaiting us in Denbigh. Arriving at about 4pm, and unfamiliar with the house’s exact whereabouts with no SatNav or map to speak of (signposts and locals’ tip-offs were a common navigational theme), we snapped up some tiffin at a local cafe shop and awaited a call from my uncle, who was yet to finish work. The call came, the directions followed, and language settings were switched to Cymraeg for the first family stay to commence ...

Although we were not allowed to sleep in the same quarters (Rosie slummed it in the utility room), she was showered with the Watkin family’s compliments whilst I bathed in a hot bath upstairs in peace. Fresh and dried up, we tucked into auntie Eiddwen’s homemade vegetarian lasagne while catching up on a year’s worth of antics. The food was fantastic, the company even more so, and being thrown into North Walian Welsh laid down the proverbial red carpet back into the motherland. Ale, conversation and a late night ensued, with extended planning of the (daunting) upcoming trek across Snowdonia a prime feature in our discussions. Luckily, my cousin Nia is a nature conservation officer and uncle Hywel a seasoned fell runner, so their combined insight and experience were priceless in bargaining with the region’s heights to cap the 60-mile journey’s elevation to a respectable level! Advice noted and protein shake taken, I climbed the staircase to the comforts of my bed for the night.

Thursday begun with sunny showers as we breakfasted and prepped for the journey ahead; my legs brimming with a sense of both excitement and dread as I envisioned the looming hills over to Harlech. But the rain stopped upon stepping out the front door, and by the time I had mounted Rosie once more we were in the mood for the day ahead. We chose the scenic route. Encountering sheep after sheep, stone wall after stone wall, and farm after farm before we stumbled upon Plas-y-Brenin; where the winding road unwrapped an open lake valley complete with the mountainous backdrop of Snowdonia for our riding pleasure. Except it was anything but. It was driving rain, blustering headwinds and a four-mile gradual incline of a stretch that could make a grown man cry. But I didn’t. Between my pushing and Rosie’s pulling, we made it to the cusp of Llyn Gwynant and stopped to take in its rainbow-illuminated calm as the clouds rolled away in a nod of respect to our combined efforts. We then freewheeled our way down to Beddgelert for a tea break, and continued our journey south to re-unite with the coast, castle and clan of Harlech town.

And there they were. Uncle Eurig and company – auntie, cousins and animals alike – welcomed Rosie and me into their beautiful old farmhouse on the brow of a hilltop overlooking the Irish Sea. Their farming roots and scenic location have been supplemented by the development of a renovated-barn holiday home and caravan site on the premises, and our stay with the Hughes’ was a measure of their excellent hospitality. Having put Rosie away in the barn (once again, we slept apart) and dumped my pannier bag in my little cousin’s One-Direction-poster-laden bedroom, my uncle and I exchanged our year’s worth of tales from the country and the city respectively before settling down for auntie Sara’s hearty pork dinner with the girls. But, not to worry, the pork wasn’t Pinky’s of the photo above; I had the pleasure of feeding him and the rest of the farm’s extended family the following morning. Awakening with my beloved porridge at 7.25am to sneak a photo with the girls before they head off to school, Eurig and I then went out to see to the hungry masses of dogs, cattle, lambs, horses and pigs who (im)patiently awaited their feed. Safe to say they were happy to see us, and I was reciprocally happy to see them by way of pitching in with some enthusiastic manual labour within the rustic rural environment that I dearly miss in city life.

So having had my fun on the farmyard, I made my way over to wake Rosie up from her sleepover with her newfound friend (I’m trusting ...) Beth, the veteran sheepdog. Slightly unimpressed by her rather-too-rustic stay in the barn, it seemed I had some making up to do, and thus today – Day 5 / Friday – was to be her day. Having always lived in the city and played in the Peaks, Rosie had yet to be beside the seaside, so we would be hugging the Welsh coastline for the 52 miles south to Llandre at her request. With temperatures now hitting the lofty heights of 18C, we leisurely cycled our way down towards the famous Bermo Bridge and onwards to our chip shop stop at Tywyn with the coastal breeze brushing our cheeks. Stopping to treat Rosie to a tyre inflation at a local bike shop, and some chips and a 99 ice cream (now costing £1.49, it appears) on the Tywyn seafront, I let her bask in the sunshine as I chilled in the shade. Sunshine lapped up and quite happy with her day thus far, she hurried me onwards on our journey and even let me take a photo of her and her sun-kissed physique as the day went along.

For all of its coastal glory, however, Friday was to pose the week’s first problems in our relationship; as, within the space of an hour, my right knee began to pain with every bend, and part of Rosie’s front tyre popped out of its rim. We both winced in concern for our respective injuries; however, being a trooper, I cast my pain aside to perform a roadside nip and tuck by gently nudging Rosie’s assets back into place. Both feeling a little tired and tender by this stage, we took a time out to eat some cheese and onion crisps on the grass before asking a local for directions in our final crawl towards my cousin Gwenllian’s ‘ty bach twt’ [translation: cute little house] in the small village of Llandre.

Safe to say we were both happy to arrive, and even more so upon learning that Rosie was allowed to join me in sleeping within the house itself. So I laid her fatigued frame down in the lounge, lathered my own in the shower, then sat and applied the frozen peas treatment to my tender tendon while in conversation with Gwenllian as she cooked up a delicious Moroccan/Greek-inspired combo of a meal. The rest of the evening was spent in recuperation mode as we ate chocolate, drank Leffe, chatted and watched Goodbye Lenin from the comfort of the sofa. Gwenllian’s boyfriend, Mannod, sat astray at the dinner table; initially revising his course textbook for an upcoming exam, before preferring to bury his head in it as if a pillow. Rosie followed suit in falling asleep under the staircase, which I then proceeded to limp my way up to my penultimate spare-room stay of the trip.

The next morning came around as sunny as the previous; with Saturday promising another 50-mile stretch that would reunite me with two aunties, one uncle and a cousin on the journey down to my dear grandmother’s home in Blaenffos. However, the knee hadn’t healed. I was limping badly, yet one look at Rosie told me that we weren’t giving up just yet. With 70 miles until home, I decided to grin and bear it. Which is more than can be said for the camera-shy Gwenllian, who declined a photo opportunity and offered a portrait shot of her abode as an alternative. A similar story was to be true for her mother, my Auntie Ann, with whom I enjoyed a beautiful tortellini and tomato based lunch in the sunny haven of her conservatory in Ffos-y-Ffin en route. I must admit, however, that I’d already taken an early dessert in the form of Aberaeron’s famous honey ice cream down by the harbour prior to arriving at Ann’s, and promptly took a photo as a mark of both redemption and respect for her meal.

The characters you see sandwiched between the cottage and the cuisine are my auntie Lynne, uncle David and cousin Ffion of Aberteifi, with whom I enjoyed a much-welcomed mid-afternoon tea and lovely homemade walnut cake with my leg rested up on the living room table. A scheduled one-hour pit stop quickly turned into an hour-and-a-half’s worth as the cake portions and conversation kept on coming, while Rosie sunbathed in the back garden having got the family introductions and pleasantries out of the way. She rejoined us for the photo opp, and we swiftly continued on our (very) hilly way over to the seclusion and quiet of my grandmother’s home in Blaenffos. 

We duly arrived within 40 minutes of incline-induced grimaces, and my grandmother was more than understanding of my unorthodox bikeuriosity by quickly dismissing her initial thoughts of housing Rosie in the garage, and instead allowed her into the house. She had made a good impression. Grandson–grandmother hugs exchanged and a much-needed shower taken, we sat down to eat the incredible nut roast feast that she had laid on, and we moved the party on to the lounge to eat an unnecessary amount of apple crumble whilst watching Welsh rugby on S4C. I went to bed with an ever-sore knee and a peaceful mind ready to wake up a year older and potentially wiser.

Waking up on the 21^st of April 2013 felt sweeter than I had anticipated. Twenty-five years old and just 22 miles from home, I gratefully accepted my grandmother’s birthday card and lapped up yet another glorious bowl of porridge as I looked out of the window to see the ... torrential downpour of rain. Rosie and her immaculately dry frame seemed unimpressed, yet I somehow took pleasure in Mother Nature’s sadistic little ploy to test my resolve on birthday day. So I pepped up my knee with some tender ibuprofen care and gave Rosie a quick reassurance before stepping out to brave the sweeping rain and yet another set of rolling hills towards our lunchtime stop at my grandparents’ home on dad’s branch of the family tree. 

Coming in from the rain rather soggy and Rosie a little squeaky, we were pleasantly surprised to see that auntie Ann (this being dad’s sister this time) had made an appearance at the house too. The meal turned out to be another epic affair, consisting of a roast chicken dinner followed by grandmother’s own classic pancakes for dessert. Winning. First and second portions consumed, we sat down to digest the food by watching the DVD of my grandfather’s own moment of glory in receiving his MBE from Prince Charles in Buckingham Palace a month or two previously. Feeling a sense of pride, I even took a photo with the man himself. That being grandfather John, not Prince Charles ...

Farewells taken care of, we were now just 13.5 miles from my family home in St. Clears. And, feeling rather pleased with ourselves, we cycled on our way over to the tiny village of Login. The village where I spent the first 16 years of my life growing up in the big white house you see in the centrepiece above. I stopped in my rain-sodden tracks to take a reminiscent look at Llys-y-Coed, and to survey the evergreen grass where my little brother and I used to play football during those happily isolated years in the sticks. In the middle of nowhere yet at the centre of everything that young Daniel wanted. Rosie would have loved it here. 

Anyway ... Memories refreshed and photograph taken, we pushed on with an old, local grudge to take care of: Rhiw Penclippin. This is a beast of a hill that leads out of the village, and one that remained unconquered throughout the bicycle adventures of my childhood. Rosie was up for it, I fancied it, and my knee would have to suffer it. We made it round the first bend with ease, pulled our way up the slippery central ascent, then pounded the pedals to reach its pinnacle in a moment of unadulterated glory. With the world at my feet and fists pumping, it felt somewhat similar to that Rocky scene where he runs up those steps in Philadelphia. But in Login. And without all the running, screaming children obviously.

Which leads me on nicely to my final trip down memory lane, as I was due to pass by my old primary school in the small town of Whitland en route. And it was on approach to the school that I would encounter my friend Jamie cycling up the other side of the road. Between his waterproofs and beaming smile, I sensed his enthusiasm for the six rain-swept miles ahead of us and so we buddied up for the final furlong. Jamie negotiated us through the cycle routes astray from the road traffic as we drafted and humoured each other along the way. We quickly arrived at St. Clears and parted ways with a fist-bump as I turned to ascend the final climb up to the Bowen residence at Cae Glas.

We had made it. Rosie and I had smiled, fought and grimaced our way through 309 miles, 10 shires and 26.5 hours worth of cycling to be home with the family. So it was just as well they were in when I knocked on the door! We were swiftly ushered through the garage out of the pouring rain, and I instantly stripped off my soaking wet jacket before fully embracing the family by means of a classic ‘cwtch’, one at time. 

Tea and welshcakes were an immediate priority, which were prepared with haste as I proceeded to discard the rest of my wet clothing and towel Rosie down in the garage. Things escalated rather quickly from here, and it was only at the call of ‘Ready!’ that I pulled myself away out of respect to the family home. And so Rosie was left to dry a little longer as I put on some clothes and made my way into the living room for the remainder of the afternoon. Dad complimented Rosie’s looks and tenacity, mum took care of my insatiable appetite for food and my undergraduate-physio of a brother paid attention to the troublesome right knee. And so the day was spent catching up with the folks and snacking in the lounge as I gradually grew sleepy in the comfort of the sofa. In fact, this sequence of Simba pretty much summed up my movements for the rest of the day ...

 

No parties. No fanfare. No drunken stupor. Just a perfect family-friendly end to a distinctly memorable week’s worth of 25th birthday celebrations. We had travelled in style: with good food, good people and good weather thrown in with the route-altering, hill-slaying vigour that any cyclist craves upon a worthy bike trip. Rosie had carried herself well, with her blushing red appearance often enough to endear herself to the family as I swooned over her endurance and stamina over the course of the week. Not even one puncture! And she had taken me from north to south; playing the role of both the guide and the guided, leading me to my desired destination(s) yet forever following my own direction with each motion and emotion generated in its synergy. A synergy that fuels the autonomous nature of bike travel in affording you the ultimate control over speed, route and stoppages while providing ample opportunity for experiencing a region’s climate, landscape and people without a window to roll down.

Unfortunately, I did not have the luxury of time to reverse my journey north-bound aboard Rosie, and had to settle for a six-hour train journey back to Sheffield the following day instead. So with bags packed and goodbye hugs shared on Platform 1 of Carmarthen station, I stepped onto the carriage and lovingly strapped my partner in for the ride back with a packed lunch on the 16:05 with Arriva Trains Wales. 

Romance is very much alive.
And it’s found on two wheels.

Daniel Bowen.