Well, it’s starting to dwindle. But what a cracking summer it’s been. I know there are negative and deeply worrying points to such a sustained period of dry sunshine and mid 30’s heat, but on the plus side, last winter’s months of damp clag and doom are entirely forgiven.
What this also means is that, in time honoured tradition I feel, and I am entirely unwarranted for this, that I have probably wasted the summer a bit. Sure, there’s been plenty of work, but the paddleboard hasn’t left its bag and I can count my kayaking days on a Somerset hand. With Mark off sailing I had a full 4 day weekend on my Jack, so sitting around at home definitely wasn’t an option. Abroad would be reckless and, whilst tempting [Jack’s Flight Club is coming up with some eyebrow raising last minute jaunts at the moment] I couldn’t justify more expense after a year of throwing money at the house…yawn
This set of shifts had, predictably, been somewhat intense. Finishing nights and then getting up around midday I experienced the usual deep sense of impending doom and chest flutters that one gets after night shifts or, at least, I do. There’s something very physiologically wrong about shift work.
I did however, have to just battle through a bit and overcome the doom, and get somewhere booked to take the van, because once I do that, it’s all sorted and there’s just a drive to get to a weekend of relaxation. I did sensibly knock Cornwall off the list though. That’s one for winter. Let the Emmets thin out.
First pick was Petruth Paddocks in Cheddar, a mate has been there a few times and really likes it. But, it’s peak August, and recent reviews likened the experience to a field of sardines, so we moved on. I eventually stumbled across an absolute Billy bargain farmer’s site in Rowberrow, near Bristol Airport for 8 quid a night. Mustn’t grumble, and 1.5hrs away in current super crush load holiday traffic.
Thankfully there were no disasters on my little drive to Bristol, and not even many twats, which is unusual. Quick stop off at a popular German retailer to stock up on groceries, 20 quid for the weekend. I was relieved on arrival to see that it was, as billed, a very low key site, and not very peopled. This was good.
I’ve nailed going away in Hetty the Hymer. We’ve been together 8 years now, so everything that I need is on board, good to go. 80l of water ready for my 4 days out. I’d also pre-cooled the fridge so had immediate cold beer on hand. Ausgezeichnet.
Unfortunately this feeling of warmth and bonhomie lasted approximately one country hour. A car rolled into the campsite, the huge largely empty campsite, and the couple within decided that the best possible place they could pitch up is about 10ft from the front of my van.
OK, that’s fine. Friendly wave, ignored.
Oh, you’ve still got your car stereo on whilst you pitch up, how lovely.
Ah, now you need to pump up the airbed, so the engine’s on again. Super
Oh, I see you’ve parked a bit far away from the portaloos. Yeah, better drive over then hun.
Phone needs charging? Yeah, definitely engine time again.
It was at the point that I angrily observed another camper screaming full pelt across the field in their Motability Qashqai for their third toilet run of the evening, and I realised I was actually a little tired and should probably just turn in before the twitch above my eye turned into a camping stool murder rampage.
Everything’s better after a bit of sleep, this was no exception. I invariably sleep really well in the van, especially above the cab, and by a somewhat shameful 10.30 in the morning I was over my dozing and ready for a good day. Imbued with this sense of deep bonhomie, I brewed a coffee and sat quietly outside the van in the sunshine. As one does.
It was at this point that nextdoor’s dog took exception to my presence and barked at me. The lady (loose term) crawled out of the tent, either in no pants or barely-visible pants, shot me a thunderous glare for my crimes, and scuttled back in. Odd.
Undeterred by this somewhat unwarranted reaction, I noticed the van behind me had gone during the early morning, so took the opportunity to be both petty and productive by reversing up the field a good 20 feet away from eggypants and her stupid dog. Ha.
Bonhomie restored, I saddled up the bike and left the site in the sunshine. As I did so, I stepped aside to let some vans in the gate, as it turned out a convoy of three identical, unsmiling moustache bros who unanimously ignored my kind consideration. I immediately knew in my soul that they would park next to me, but decided not to ruin the day just yet by checking. Really, I should just learn that people are inherently disappointing and not to dwell on the matter.
I set out on two wheels intending to hit a bit of the Strawberry Line but with no clear plan in mind. There’s nothing better than pottering around on a nice day like this, and my wanderings first took me to Axbridge, a somewhat overlooked but genuinely beautiful little village. These are all places that I’ve patrolled or, more often, screamed through at Warp Factor 9 chasing naughty people, but not actually taken the time to explore. It doesn’t have to be far away, there’s magic in the little snickets locally that you never get around to walking down.
Along the way, down a lane in Axbridge, I came across a house with things on the windowsill free to collect and found these wonderfully aesthetic old postcards from the grand old early days of the Costas. Mercifully, these fitted in my shorts pocket, because my rucksac’s away for mending. I need to find a corner where Mark won’t find them as they are aren’t Scandi… He might even consider them…tat!
My meanderings took me out of Axbridge and through the quiet lanes around Meare. Perfect, and the mind just unwinds pottering through the lanes.
In my usual unhelpful fashion I had to check out Petruth Paddocks, in the manner of “what you could have won” and was somewhat relieved to have confirmed my choices. These were not my people, especially not the large group on the cycle path who weren’t happy about bikes being on it too. The great British tradition of unnnecessary snark.
Where DOES this come from? There’s no need for it. I was going nice and slowly on a shared use, very wide path avoiding his beige family and still get it in the neck. I opted to smile and wave and point at the big picture of a bicycle on it.
I do feel that maybe people have lost the idea of consequence these days. Nobody gets randomly filled in for being rude to passers by, society’s just all gone a little bit vanilla so everyone can have a little pop. You just know that the next step, Sharon’s got you on CAMRUH and you’re on Cheddar Matters Facebook group as the man who verbally abused her Frenchie.
Not sure where I’m going with this one. I definitely don’t advocate that people should be physically punished for such crimes because where does it end? Next stop you’re on the tarmac whilst their two sons Ronnie and Reggie set about you with vape pens and an XL Bully lead. Hit ‘Im Ronny!
Since it was a sunny weekend in August, Cheddar was predictably horrible. Absolutely packed, with a constant procession of bruvved up motors rumbling through, and about 1 number plate between the lot of them. I tactically exited Dodge right here and now.
Unfortunately my routefinding had thrown a bit of an error. More a crime of circumstance actually. I didn’t fancy the much longer return to the Strawberry Line then the schlep up the hill so decided on the direct route, a horribly busy and narrow road which would definitely lead to death under the wheels of a fully-loaded Motability Qashqai.
Instead it seemed a far better idea to go up the footpath alongside it. Until that dissolved into brambles. Eventually after a few bramble-avoiding turns I reached the quarry at the top. And then had to go right round the quarry at the top. This was a bit of a challenge for a cross bike on still pretty skinny tyres.
I was a little alarmed to see a sign for a “sentry post” but I’m sure it’s a quarry thing, right? Eventually, after a good few twists and turns, fields, footpaths and stiles I made it back to site. Phew. The bike was immediately strapped back up, that was it for the weekend. This really was Peak Sam, doing a 5 mile detour dragging a road bike through brambles to save about a mile of unpleasant road. But it gets the steps in, right?
Thankfully my fears of Moustache Bro pitch invasion were unfounded since they had rocked up on the other side of the site in a cool wagon circle. Phew.
The next day a leisurely approach was warranted, I’d booked lunch at the exceptionally handy Swan Inn 2 minutes walk down the road. A Butcombe pub right on hand is always welcome, although I kicked myself for not booking this sooner for the free birthday drinks. Just me on my Tod, so I was put in a funky little loser alcove.
As I entered the pub, a lady clearly of money was coming out, so I graciously stepped back to allow her. She glided out of the pub and shot me a filthy look. Ah, right, it’s that kind of place. Thankfully, I find that dining out in places where the clientele are predominantly arses means that staff members are super nice when they detect someone of a more pleasant disposition. Henry was charming and let me try the alcohol free pint I should have ordered instead of the rubbish bottle I ended up with. [Goram AF is where it’s at]
After a competent but somewhat uninspiring thirtytwofrickingpounds lunch and underwhelming alcohol free beer, I set out towards Rowberrow Warren for the afternoon’s constitutional.
This turned out to be a very lovely wander, with some great new entrants for my “Snarky countryside signs” collection. Annoyed by walkers on your land? Sure, string up some barbed wire and hammer a nicked footpath sign into that ancient oak. You do you.
Bile and rage aside, there’s something wonderfully unravelling about time in nature on a good hike. Life is complex, and your brain never gets the chance in normal life to unpick it’s troubles and tribulations. I find weekends like this incredibly valuable. When you’re just wandering, the ADHD brain calms and you mull over the week’s conundrums. I did slightly overdo this however, since once you’ve got to the end of the actual problems in your head it turns in on itself and starts formulating imaginary arguments with imaginary overcharging Turkish taxi drivers.
Having been spoilt by a wonderful and picturesque ancient track over the hill, I had faith that the remaining footpaths on my map would be delightful navigable meanders through to the village of Langford for an ice cream. Reaching the A38, and having to run for my life across it and then getting solidly tangled in brambles, this was clearly not the case. I was particularly skeptical about the section which was clearly a burglar’s delight straight through an industrial estate, above. I forget that not all footpaths actually get used or looked after.
Thankfully, once I left the village and headed upwards, it again got me out into beautiful countryside with curious cows and an incredible vista across to the sea and beyond.
I was delighted to see that the campsite had almost completely thinned out on my return. Peace.. and a lovely hot shower, once I’d changed the impeccably timed empty gas bottle. A nice chat with a van lifer dropping into the site for the night, and that was pretty much the weekend done. I was, in equal parts, amazed and stoked that my tinkering with the fridge before coming away had actually caused it to work properly.
Take the small wins.
loquitohermoso 
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