Winter Multi-Modal Fun

I’m sure everyone has some item, perhaps even a few items, that were purchased in a fit of enthusiasm during the whirlwind romance stage of a new hobby, but which now languish unused, often hidden away in some corner of the house. For me, it’s my guitar. In El’s case, it’s a surfboard, bought when she was a free-range Welsh teenager before she moved to Oxford, a place about as landlocked as it’s possible to be in the UK. To start with, the surfboard lived in the dining room, but eventually, it’s taunting presence grew too much and it was relegated to the attic. Out of sight, out of mind. Every so often, one of us would say “we should go surfing sometime”, but for 5+ years, it had never happened…

Until, that is, one weekend at the end of the November last year! This was just at the start of the UK cold spell; the usual gale force westerlies were briefly replaced by frigid easterlies, meaning small, but clean waves. Ideal conditions for two very rusty surfers who weren’t afraid of the cold.

But why stick with one activity when you can make a weekend out of it? (N.B. this type of thinking get’s us into trouble sometimes). With this in mind, we also brought our bikes along with the plan to cycle up into the hills for the night, before a Sunday loop over to Afan trail centre and back to the coast. This would be El’s first proper outing on her newly built up Stooge Rambler, while I was keen to see how the Aeropack and panniers that Tailfin had kindly given me handled off-road. In view of the freezing temperatures predicted overnight, this would also be an ideal opportunity to test some of the colder weather clothing and camping equipment in preparation for our big trip next year. Listing out all our reasons like this, it seemed like a no brainer to go spend the weekend camping in the middle of winter, despite what the concerned look on some of my work colleagues’ faces may have suggested.

After a surprisingly short drive (surprising, given it had taken us over 5 years to make it this far) we arrived at Rest Bay in Porthcawl. The waves were small, but clean, and our early start meant that there were just handful of people were busy doing the wetsuit-putting-on shuffle in the car park. Our first port of call was the surf shop to rent a second board.

Did we want to hire booties and gloves? the shop assistant asked.

Nah, I replied. I’d survived many winters surfing in Portugal with only my 3.2mm wetsuit for company. Messing about in some playful little waves for an hour would be fine, right? The shop assistant looked concerned.

Yes, replied El. *At this point El would like to add that she told me (Liam) a story about surfing without boots in Wales in February and only realising hours later as her feet warmed up that one foot was looking a bit bruised with a broken big toe. She had hoped he would learn from her mistake but clearly he was too excited to listen*

First contact with the water proved, in my mind, that I’d made the right decision. This wasn’t too bad, I was going to be fine. Looking around the lineup, I was literally the only person not wearing boots and gloves, and most had hoods on as well. Wimps, I thought. What I hadn’t reckoned with was that it was going to be so much fun that I would end up staying in for the best part of 90 minutes, only coming out to save our towels from the rapidly advancing tide. I wasn’t as crap as I expected to be and the relaxed atmosphere in the water was a pleasant contrast to my memories of aggro and localism. Simple, unadulterated fun.

By this point, my feet were completely numb. I clambered over the rocks and up the slipway barefoot without a care in the world! Only later that evening when my feel finally came back online would I realise that I’d bashed my foot at some point. (N.B. 7 weeks later, my broken foot is still not healed. Worst £3 I ever saved!)

Eventually, El came in too (she makes it a point to always stay in longer than me) and we tried, mostly in vain, to warm ourselves back up with a hot chocolate in the cafe, before switching over to bike mode. It felt pretty stupid to be setting off feeling this cold but this is what we had signed up for! After the obligatory BAAW on the seafront shot, we pedalled away inland and up into the hills.

The key to a successful winter camp is having something to do between sunset and the time you actually want to go to sleep: around 5 hours at the end of November. If you were in a hurry, some or all of this time could be spent riding, but what’s the point in going to explore new places if you pass through them in darkness? Reading a book or engaging in a philosophical debate with your ride partner are other options, but difficult to sustain for the full duration without either having your arm go numb, lapsing into silence or strangling each other. As with most things in life, the answer is simple: pub.

With this in mind, a key consideration in our route planning was whether there were any pubs on our route, and if not, how could we change our route to go past one. The only pub in Bryn seemed like a good a target based on distance and where we thought we might find a camp spot.

Things felt empty when we eventually rocked up to the pub at around 6pm, with over an hour of night riding already under our belts. We did a lap of the building, then another, hmm…it seems like there could be people inside? Trying to suppress the alarm bells ringing in our heads we rang the actual bell and were buzzed in a couple of seconds later. It was not entirely obvious where we were meant to go after that, but we eventually found the door to the bar area. The scene that greeted us could’ve come straight out of a working men’s club from the 70s, apart from the lack of smoke and the flatscreen TVs adorning every wall, that is. A row of locals were lined up on a bench facing the cricket on Sky Sports…and us, since the door to the hallway was right next to the TV.

It was all a bit intimidating. Us standing there in 5 layers top and bottom, helmets and winter cycling boots, me with my nose dripping, and the bank of locals, not quite sure if they should believe what their eyes were seeing. Thankfully, El was on hand with her most flamboyant Welsh accent to break the ice. We perched ourselves next to the gas heater going full blast and order one pint each of Brains and Guinness (the two options). The locals turned out to be a jolly bunch, and after a volley of questions to ascertain just what we were up to, where we’d come from, where we were going etc they seemed satisfied with the responses and went back to watching the cricket.

El subsequently mused that it was interesting how we generally refer to the “working class” as one homogenous group, but that the lives of these people here in Bryn would be very different from those also considered working class in Bristol. In some respects I agree, but in many other ways, I feel like the issues people face here are the issues they face in many other places too. All the chat was about the cost of living crisis, with many discussing the various strategies they had taken to reduce their heating bills this winter. (Funnily enough, keeping the heat in turned out to be why the front door was kept locked shut). Plus, I don’t feel particularly qualified to talk about the Bristol working class given we live fairly sheltered lives among friends of similar socio-economic and educational backgrounds, and would never find ourselves in an equivalent pub back home. This goes to illustrate one of the best things about travelling – that it can take you out of your comfort zone and interact with people you never normally would in your day to day life whether that’s in deepest darkest Peru or the depths of the Welsh Valleys.

Despite stringing out our pints for as long as we feasibly could, the moment arrived when our glasses were empty and it was time to head back out into the freezing darkness. Though not before we had let a bunch of precious hot air escape and we ducked back and forth to fill our spare bottles up from the toilet (ultimately, a pointless exercise since I forgot the oats for porridge). On our way down into Bryn, we had spotted a good looking (flat) campsite in a strand of deciduous trees amongst the ubiquitous coniferous plantations, so we heading back up the hill to that.

The following morning, we kept on going up the hill, before looping back down to Bryn via a different route, then tackling the steep climb up and over onto the Afan trails. Trail centre trails are pretty harsh on a rigid bike at the best of times, but with added luggage things get even more challenging (read: fun). This would be El’s first time tackling this type of trail on the Stooge and she handled it like a champ. That said, both of us breathed a sigh of relief when we exited the final trail and only had firewood left between us and the cafe.

Post-cafe, a grunty push ensued on some old beaten-to-shit byway (some mutinous comments regarding the route planner were overheard), before tackling the self-dubbed Col de Slag, which neatly bisected, you guessed it, two slag heaps. A wet rocky descent into another village that time forgot, before a very bumpy climb up to the ridge on the opposite side of the valley. I’m not sure if my suggestion that this was great training for the Ecuadorian cobble roads helped.

We crested the last major hill of route (apart from the actual last one) as the clouds blew in and out around us. From there, a sheep poo littered descent took us down to a washed out river crossing, thankfully complete with rickety bridge, then a tarmac up and over (the actual last climb) and the final semi-urban zig zag back to the coast.

Despite some un-bargained for bumps and altogether far too long spent not being able to feel my feet, it had been a great weekend out – just the right balance of fun and rewarding. Ever the one-upper, El went in for a final dip in the sea in the pitch black, which earned her a shivery drive back up the M4. And she calls me silly…