Going wild
Ever since I took hold of Optimus (my wonderful Transporter Kombi van) a few months ago, I’ve wanted to use him to get away for a weekend of adventure, wilderness and training. So what better time of year to do it than January; I was bound to get some glorious weather, right? Oh I do like to be beside the seaside I’d been checking the weather all week and it wasn’t looking great, but it wasn’t awful either (for January). Late Friday afternoon I loaded up Optimus with the bike, sleeping bags (two for extra warmth), roll mat, a lot of thermal and waterproof clothing and just a few essentials I’d be needing – torch, map and a book. My plan for the Friday night was to head for Appledore on the north Devon coast. I’d read that you could pay £5 to park your camper-van overnight right on the banks of the convergence of the Taw and Torridge rivers before they make their way out into the Bristol Channel. It looked like a stunning spot and I’d figured that on a cold, dark night in January the carpark would be deserted. I was surprised when I arrived to find plenty of grand campers, some stylish Transporters and some more weary looking converted vans already in place for the evening. There was still a spot though right next to the water and I grabbed it. I’d already checked out Google Maps and knew there was a fish and chip shop just a few hundred metres away. I was imagining opening the boot, sitting in the back and listening to the sounds of the waves as that glorious odour of salt and vinegar-covered chips filled my nostrils. The first blow to this was when I discovered that the parking meter only took cash, of which I had none. No matter I thought, I’ll find a cashpoint, get my fish and chips then use the change to pay. Google Maps kindly revealed that the nearest cash point was in Bideford, a good drive back the way I’d just come. Off I went, returning and, led by my nose, heading straight for the purveyors of battered cod and golden brown fried potatoes. I arrived just in time to witness the door being locked from the inside and, looking longingly through the window like Charlie salivating over the promise of a golden ticket, was greeted with an apologetic but helpless look in return. I’d spotted a decent-looking pub opposite the water and so headed there instead. You never know what sort of pub you’ll be walking into in the more remote parts of our great isle and I was pleasantly surprised to find that it looked cosy, not a single patron’s head swivelled in my direction as I walked through the door and I received a friendly welcome at the bar. There was only one thing on the menu I could choose; fish and chips with mushy peas. OK so it came on a plate and not in paper and I had only the slightest glimpse through the window of the water, but it tasted good nonetheless. I returned to the van content, some of my fellow happy campers busy organising things in and around their vans. And organised they seemed, far more so than me as I hung sheets over my windows with electrical tape to act as curtains. They had foil-lined blinds that fitted each pane of glass in their vehicle perfectly, making them looking like some sort of Mars Rover vehicle. Makeshift soft furnishings in place, I lay my roll mats and sleeping bag on the floor of the van, using the other as a pillow as I felt surprisingly cosy, and fell asleep next to the bike. Am I in a horror movie? I woke to the sound of clanging metal and was instantly aware of the presence of a large number of people around the van. Peering through the sheet taped to the rear window, heavy with condensation, I could see a group assembling what looked like a makeshift fence blocking off the back of Optimus. Alongside me was parked one of those open-backed monster trucks so common on our roads these days and what I thought was a speedboat attached to the rear. I was already hemmed in at the front by another camper-van and for a moment I was concerned that I’d ended up in one of those low budget horror films where all of the locals are in on it. Was I going to be surrounded, set on fire and burned as a sacrifice to the local god of the sea? Nervously, I slid open the side door and climbed out, concerned I may be greeted by a mob wielding planks of two by two full of nails, pitch forks and rag-covered torches, dipped in oil and burning intensely. Instead, what I found was a large amount of people milling about in wetsuits. An older gentleman, for some reason surprised to see me emerge from the van (there were at least 15 similar ones in the car park interspersed with actual camper vans) said good morning, and I asked him what was going on. Turns out, there was a sea rowing gala that morning (rather them than me) and he politely offered to get them to move the mini-marquee they’d been erecting which was blocking my escape…I mean exit route. With the van out of it’s temporary prison, I readied myself for the day’s ride and set off looking for something to eat. The Golden Arches reared their head at the side of the road and I took the opportunity to enjoy a sausage and egg mcmuffin, hash brown and a tea, safe in the knowledge that I’d be burning it off very soon. The sun begins to rise across the water An uphill start I knew there weren’t many long-term parking spaces in Braunton where the Tarka Trail began, a 30-mile traffic-free cycle route
