Wellington to Wookey Hole

Star Wars still from Google Images

No, no, not that kind of Wookie!  That's me in the morning of a bad hair day.  Mind you, with hair like that then every day is a bad hair day.  Actually, I don't look very different from that after I've finished each leg of my virtual bike ride, so it's more apt than it first seems.

I have no idea where the village of Wookey Hole got it's name, but I know that it's been around longer than the Star Wars films so maybe George Lucas got the name of the Wookie race from the place.  Who knows?  Other than that, I know that it's a small place in Somerset amidst the Mendip Hills, which are very ... hilly.  I can tell you that from experience because it was very hard work cycling through them, even virtually as I increased the resistance on the MotoMed to four gears up from my usual for 30km.  I was very tired after all my crazy antics at Wellington so the 70km ride felt a lot further and was a lot harder going than some.  That'll teach me to party all night in a park before I have to cycle 70kms.  All the same, I completed it in two hours and thirty two minutes.

For all that cycling through the Mendips was hard work, it was beautiful and dramatic.

I had heard that there are wild goats that roam the hills, but that they could be pretty elusive, so I was surprised to stumble across this chap or chappess wandering through the trees by the roadside.

I'm sure he/she can stand up for themselves when they need to, and I didn't try to engage it in conversation or activity to test it out, but it didn't seem very wild to me.  It was happy wandering through the trees nibbling on the undergrowth, and I was happy just to watch from the roadside.

Once again, I hadn't sorted anywhere to stay, but one of the things for which Wookey Hole is famous is its caves, so I figured that I might be able to kip in one of them. It would make an interesting change from the tent or a hotel, and as the Wookey Hole caves are a constant 11C they're not too chilly.  One of the things this constant, moderate temperature is good for is providing the perfect environment for ageing cheese, specifically Cheddar cheese as Wookey Hole is just around the corner from Cheddar.  Yes, that phrase, 'Cave-aged Cheddar cheese,' does literally mean that it's sat on a rack in a cave in Cheddar/Wookey Hole for several years before it's packaged up and sent to the shops. Look...

That really is rack after rack of humongous cheeses.  How delicious!  This was the cave for me for the weekend, most definitely!

Once I'd cleared it with the tour guide that I could squirrel away in the cave, I took a look around my temporary abode and was quite blown away by the beauty and magnificence of the nature that surrounded me.

Look at those stalactites and stalagmites!  Aren't they stunning?  Nature is amazing!

These lakes are natural too, and so much deeper than they look.  Apparently the clarity of the water deceives us into believing it's a lot shallower than it actually is.

Although a little tricky to get into, I decided that the rowing boat would likely be the most comfortable place to sleep in the cave as the ground was so lumpy bumpy and intermittently spiky with stalagmites.  I had my sleeping bag and squishy pillows out of my bike panniers so figured I'd be okay for a few nights, and if I needed any other luxuries from my camping equipment my bike wasn't too far away.  Before bed, though, I needed some sustenance so I ambled back to the shelves of cheese and ventured up the steps where I found...

Photo from Google Images

Cheese heaven!  Stack after stack after stack of creamy, tangy, Cheddary deliciousness, wrapped in cotton blankets, and resting for perhaps ten years, maybe more.  How ridiculous that when it leaves the cave and goes into the shop that they then stick a 'use by' date on it for sometime in the next few weeks!

Surely, with all those enormous truckles lining mile upon mile of underground shelving, they weren't going to miss one.  Surely.  And I needed food, energy packed cheesy food to restore my weary body after my long, weary cycle from Wellington.  I braved it.  I admit, I took a cheese, a whole cheese.

Photo from Google Images

I left a note of thanks and apology and a significant wad of cash that would hopefully cover the costs ... and then I scoffed the lot.  Mnomnomnom.

The boat wasn't too bad as a sleeping place, and the total lack of wind or weather of any kind meant that the lake was absolutely still.  The little rowing boat only moved when I did, and I was so tired that I barely stirred.

The following day I ventured to another part of the cave and learnt that perhaps I ought to have had a more disturbed night than I did, because the Wookey Hole caves hold the legend of a witch!

Photo from Google Images

I can't remember the whole legend of the Wookey Hole witch, but the very basic story is that way back in the mists of time a bloke fell in love with a woman.  A mean old lady, probably a bitter spinster (in my opinion), didn't like romance so did something to end the relationship, but I can't remember if she turned the woman against the man or something more horrible.  Anyway, later in life the young man became a monk of some kind (so probably a good thing that he hadn't married his previous love), and went to see the old woman who by then lived in the cave.  He said some incantations and splashed her with holy water, and suddenly she began to turn to rock.  This rock, is said to be her...

Can you see her profile?  Spooky!

I didn't sleep so well that night, but it's probably just as well that I hadn't, at that stage, gone all the way through the caves and out the 'exit', because when I did I was confronted by this guy...

Never mind the witch, this fifteen-foot high gorilla is utterly terrifying when you've spent a couple of days in a cave, munching cheese, sleeping in a rowing boat on a lake hundreds of feet underground, avoiding shadows of legendary witches turned to stone.  At least he doesn't growl because it'd echo around the Mendips and probably send the goats into an attacking frenzy.  On the other hand, maybe that's why they're wild, after all, just seeing this gorilla was almost enough to send me wild, let alone hearing it.  

Making a quick escape from the giant gorilla, I skirted around him and was almost immediately confronted by these beasts!

I turned to run from them only to have this guy leap out at me...

What is wrong with this place?!  Giant gorillas and the resurrection of savage dinosaurs waiting to jump out at you from behind the bushes!  And just when you think you've avoided becoming dino lunch, they 'thaw out' the Wookey Hole witch and set her loose on you...

Photo from Google Images

Okay, so she's not that scary, but who knows what spells she could cast on me even from a distance.  My only hope is that she's confined to the realms of Wookey Hole and isn't going to fly after me on her broomstick because I can't cycle all that fast and I haven't tried to out-cycle a woman on a broomstick before.

I take back what I said at the beginning.  I reckon George Lucas came and visited Wookey Hole and only had to look at himself in the mirror when he'd made his getaway to get his inspiration for the Wookies because, hey, this was me when I got back to my bike...

Photo from You Tube/Google Images

The adrenaline from that lot certainly helped me pedal on through the Mendips, and the so-called wild goats seemed positively tame as I whizzed by.

They're not even giving me sly glances or look as though they're plotting to butt me off my bike with their horns.  No, they're only interested in the juiciness of that ivy, or whatever it is.  

Anyway, I wasn't hanging around.  I was off to Gloucestershire and my next stop at WWT Slimbridge.  I'll see you there, and hopefully I'll get back to having a much more sensible time with a flamingo or something.  While you wait for me to write my next post about what I get up to at Slimbridge, please remember to sponsor me on my Just Giving Page for this epic virtual cycle ride from Land's End to John O'Groats (and the writing of this blog tracking the journey) to help raise funds for Pop-Up Gym.  If you need a reminder as to why it's so important then please do read the long bit of blurb at the top of the blog.  With huge thanks for your support.

Westward Ho! to Wellington

Apologies for the delay in updating you on my travels, and apologies also for having to delay my trip from Westward Ho! to Wellington, but I was rather incapacitated for a bit after my attack by the Beast of the Moor.  I am still wounded, but I am recovering and healing, and I have been able to get on my way.

It was a long and arduous cycle of 87km from Westward Ho! to Wellington, 40km of which I did at increased resistance by four gears.  Despite that, I managed to complete the journey in 3 hours and 2 minutes.

You know, I have known nothing about Wellington, Somerset, until arriving here.  I don't know anything about Wellington in New Zealand either, but considering that would be a ridiculous cycle ride as that's the other side of the world, perhaps I can be excused.  Anyway, given that I knew nothing about Wellington, and that it's slightly south from where I was and my destination is as far north as we can get in mainland UK, you may be asking yourself why I have come here.  It is simply that I used to have a car I called Wellington.  It was a Toyota Yaris that one of the car review magazines described as being 'as practical as a wellington boot,' so that had to be my car's name ... and now that's how I came to include Wellington in my epic journey from Land's End to John O'Groats.

The attack by the Beast of the Moor threw me somewhat and meant that I forgot to plan anywhere to stay in Wellington so I've ended up camping again.

But I have a new addition to my camping equipment...a sink.  It's not just any old sink though, it's a wonderful butler's sink.  I can't actually bring myself to use it for washing up just yet so I've decided to use it as a fridge...or more specifically, a minibar.

Excuse the bottles of red on the shelves above.  They, of course, should not be chilled, so I'm keeping them where they are.  I'm now a firm believer that every tent should have a butler's sink, which can be used as a minibar, but if absolutely necessary could be used to wash up dishes or even clothes.

Wellington is a very pretty little town with lots of flowers, even at the sign that welcomes you in.

The town itself is lovely too with loads of independent little shops, which is quite a contrast to most towns and cities these days that have almost become clones of each other with national chain stores littering the high streets.  It's refreshing to come somewhere where you almost need to hunt out a chain store amongst the plethora of independent shops.

Anyway, the town centre wasn't the best place to go looking for a place to pitch my tent so I pedalled on until I came across Wellington Park.  Beautiful landscaping, flowers, a spot of topiary, and even a small lake.  The perfect place to set up camp for a couple of nights.

I wasn't sure how the good people of Wellington would take to me pitching up camp here, but so far no complaints.  That may have something to do with the amount of alcohol in my butler's sink, of course, but hey, it's been beautiful weather so a small party in the park is maximising the warmth.


Now, I've found out a little about the history of Wellington while I've been here, mostly due to a visit to the brilliantly informative Wellington Museum, which has loads to see.  I can't possibly remember everything, but I'll see if I can remember something about the park...

So, way back in 1787 a private bank was set up in Wellington by the Fox family (and some others - the Fowlers 'and Company'), as a subsidiary business to sheep-herding and wool-making, as you do.  Fast forward to 1927 and the Fox, Fowler and Company bank - the last private bank in the country - merged with Lloyds Bank, but the F,F&C notes were still still legal tender until 1964.  

None of that has anything specifically to do with the park except that it introduces you to the Fox family.

This is not the Fox family.  This is a family of foxes.

In 1902 some council folk wanted to create a public park as a memorial for the coronation of King Edward VII, but the site they really wanted was prime agricultural land and therefore very expensive.  Step in the Fox family who gave them a wodge of land next to where the council folk had wanted, plus a big lot of money.  They also paid for the landscaping of the park, the planting, and all the building works too (I think), and the park was opened on 2nd May 1903.  Apparently it's hardly changed since it was opened 115 years ago, and now I'm camping in it and offering the local folk chilled prosecco, cider, beer, or a softie out of a fancy ceramic sink in my tent.

Cheers!

I don't know about you, but I was wondering if the town of Wellington had anything to do with welly boots.  Apparently it does!

You may have heard of the bloke the Duke of Wellington.  The first Duke of Wellington was actually called Arthur Wellesley, getting his title from the town.  Arthur was one of the aristocracy and as such had rather rich taste, and all the rage back then in the mid 19th Century was the Hessian Boot, so that's what he wore.

But Arthur decided he wanted something a bit different.  I dunno, maybe he was bored, or maybe he had blisters on his toes or his heels. He went to his shoemakers/cobblers and I don't know whether he helped design it, told the cobbler what he wanted, or if the cobbler came up with the idea himself, but however it came about, the tassels were taken off, the new boots were cut to fit closer to the calf, and made out of soft leather.  They made other changes too so that they were durable enough to withstand horse back riding, but smart enough to be worn at formal evening events.  The altered boots were named after the chap they'd been made for, and thus was born the wellington boot.  Quite how we got from that to the rubber gumboot wellies we wear now, I don't know, and I'm not convinced anyone would turn up to a ball wearing them either, but each to their own.

It seems that our Arthur Wellesley did more than design boots and be born wealthy.  He also beat Napoleon in the Battle of Waterloo and was Prime Minister, twice.  That's a fair bit for one bloke to do, so it's no surprise that the folk of Wellington are proud to be associated with him.  They're so proud, in fact, that they built a monument to him, which I thought I'd better go and see while I was here.

It's a lovely walk through wooded parkland to get to the monument, which gives something of a feel of the surrounding countryside.

As the path begins to peter out (though I don't know who this Peter is) and the trees thin, the huge obelisk rises from the ground, perched on a tall plinth.

It's even more magnificent when you get close up...

...though I have to say that I was somewhat wary of the enormous canon left carelessly beside it.  I mean, what if someone had come along with a spare canon ball, or if they were wanting to practise being a human canon ball?  No consideration for Health and Safety.

Having said that, I was tired after my long cycle and then my trek through the woods to the monument, so thankful for a place to rest.  It turns out that canons are relatively comfy places to sit if you straddle them, but not so great if you then fall asleep and slide off sideways.  It might be that I was so tired that I didn't wake up when I slid off, or it might be that I knocked myself out, but either way I woke some time later with a bump on my head and my legs akimbo up the side of the canon.  I don't think this is my best look.  Anyway, it was dusk when I woke up and the monument was all lit up, nice and pretty.

Now I'm not usually scared of the dark, but it was very, very dark in those woods when I started to make tracks back to my tent in the park.  When I say dark, I mean this kind of dark...

Not expecting to be out that late, I hadn't taken my torch with me, so I went back to the illuminated monument, rested against its enormous plinth, wrapped myself up warm in my extra jumper, covered myself with my coat, and settled down for a snoozle.  I can't say that I slept well, but I managed to get a bit of rest.

I was woken from some kind of half slumber early the next morning by a bloke who was unusually exuberant for that time of day, or maybe it's that I'm not a morning person.  In my opinion mornings would be fine if they just came a bit later on, but they always insist on arriving far too early in the day.  This guy was clearly of the morning variety, but I could hardly tell him to keep the chatter down when I was at this public monument even earlier than him, so I indulged his morningness and found out that he was here so early because he was scaling the height of the monument.  Whether it was the possible head injury from the day before, the attack from the Beast of the Moor a few days prior to that, or the lack of proper sleep the previous night, I somehow found myself agreeing to join him!

It was only when we'd shared Cliff's sandwiches at the top and I was asking how quick the descent would be that he came clean.  He wasn't intending on abseiling back down Wellington's obelisk.  No, he was going to be picked up by a fellow crazy morning person in a hot air balloon!  And now that I was up there and attached to his ropes, I couldn't exactly say I was off, scarper down the monument, and run off with his climbing equipment.  I had no option but to wait for transport and climb into the basket!

Mind you, it was a good view from the top of the obelisk...

...even if there hadn't been much space for the two of us on the point while we'd been eating sarnies and waiting for the balloon.

My problem then, so it turned out, was that Cliff and Skye (our pilot) weren't planning on dropping down to terra firma in Wellington.  They were heading back west to somewhere in Devon, which wasn't at all helpful for me because there was no way I wanted to redo the last 87km or possibly more!  I was fast learning that Cliff was the dangerously resourceful type, always planning for the unexpected, and it appeared he'd planned to bump into a random sleep deprived nutter with a possible head injury unable to make sensible decisions.  He knew he'd convince them to scale the outside of the enormous monument he was visiting, not telling them until much later that there's actually a staircase up the inside, and that they wouldn't want to go to his final destination with him.  Yup, Cliff had a handy parachute packed up in the corner of the basket, which he strapped onto my back and gave me vague instructions about making sure I roll when I land.  I think a little more instruction on the technicalities of parachuting and landing with a parachute is probably ideal, perhaps with some practise on the the ground before taking to the air, but given my predicament I wasn't in a position to argue much.

We hadn't actually been 'flying' long when I got my bearings and saw the park.  Cliff gave me a leg up onto the side of the basket, Skye did something with the burners (heck, they're noisy!), and before I knew it I was throwing myself off the basket with Cliff calling out that he'd pick up his parachute from the biggest beech tree by the lake in the park the next time he was passing.

I didn't have time to 'enjoy' much of a free fall because I was busy trying to remember which cord I needed to pull to open the parachute, and that I needed to roll when I landed so that I didn't break my legs or die.  Thankfully, and totally by the grace of God, I pulled the right cord, and I'd jumped out at exactly the right spot because there below me was my little tent along with several others that belonged to some local folk who'd gathered and been enjoying the party in the park I'd started.

Yeah, they hadn't even noticed that I'd been gone all night, but they were very excited to see me approach by parachute.  The party that followed was something else...

They're still at it and have been partying on all through the weekend.  I however, moved on from Wellington on Friday, but I'm still catching up with my blog writing, and recovering from the craziness that Wellington brought into my life.  Never trust a sleepy-looking place to be as innocent as it looks.

I'll try to catch up with myself as soon as I can and will post again shortly about my trip to Wookey Hole.  In the meantime, please do sponsor me for my virtual bike ride and blog writing at my Just Giving page to help me raise funds for Pop-Up Gym.  Every penny helps, and every penny is gratefully received.


**All photos in this post, except of the MotoMed screen and of my tent, were taken from Google Images

The Beast of the Moor

Photo from Google Images

I was supposed to have moved on from Westward Ho! on Monday and to have written a post from my next stop Wellington, but unfortunately there has been a delay in proceedings.

Some of you will have heard of The Beast of Bodmin Moor, but for those of you who haven't, Bodmin Moor is a National Park moorland in Cornwall situated to the south of Tintagel, north of Liskeard, east of Bodmin, and west of Launceston (see the map on the first link above).  The beast is a legendary big cat non-native to the UK and said to hunt sheep and other such animals grazing on the moor.  There are numerous images of supposed sightings of the animal taken over several decades, but lack of absolute evidence leaves the validity of these images in question along with an inability to confirm The Beast as real.

A little less well known big cat beast is The Beast of Exmoor, Exmoor lies further east and in Devon and Somerset, but again provides extensive moorland for such an animal to roam.  Sightings of big cats on Exmoor date back well into the 1970s, but also as recently as 2017.  It is thought that if these 'beasts' are real then they may be animals that had once been pets but released onto the moors when it became illegal to keep big cats as pets.  This change of the law occurred in the late 1960s.

Photo from Google Images

My current location of Westward Ho! is neither on Bodmin Moor nor Exmoor, but somewhere in between.  However, I have been delayed on my journey because I am the most recent victims of one of these big cats roaming the countryside.  I suspect it either got lost or fancied a change of scenery, but I can assure you that it is real!

Whether it was the roaming Beast of Bodmin Moor or the roaming Beast of Exmoor I don't know, or perhaps it's a new Beast of Westard Ho!  As much as I desperately wanted to continue with my cycle on Monday after the attack on Sunday, I had to return to the hospital for follow up treatment yesterday, and actually I felt exhausted from the shock of it, so I returned to The Waterfront Inn for some rest in my comfy and calming room.

Photo from Waterfront Inn website

I have to return to the hospital tomorrow morning for my wounds to be reviewed, checked for infection (my hand is quite swollen and very painful), and redressed.  They have so far been uncertain whether or not I will need to go to theatre to have my wounds deep cleaned, but I'm very much hoping that can be avoided and instead I'll be able to get on my way to Wellington.

I apologise profusely for the interruption in proceedings, but I promise you that I will be back on my bike as soon as possible. I will also be vigilant on the rest of my journey and on the look out for other big cats and beasts roaming the UK countryside. I might see if I can find a lion tamer to accompany me through the most remote areas.

I sense that some of you are sceptical about the cause of my injuries.  I don't know why.  I mean, it's not as though you have any evidence of my ever having stretched the truth before...

...What?  You've had doubts about several events on my blog? I'm shocked!  I'm hurt!

Okay, okay, I concede.  Here's what really happened on Sunday...
(What follows is not amusing and may be upsetting to some)

As background information you should know that I have a snow bengal cat who I don't let out to roam on her own because of the risk of being stolen.  However, I believe that cats should be able to go outside if they want to so I take my cat - Katinka - for walks on a harness and lead in one of the local parks.

I have to be somewhat careful because it can be quite a popular dog-walking area, but 99% of the time dog owners keep their animals under control and we never usually have a problem.

On Sunday I bumped into a friend, J, shortly before Katinka and I were going to leave the park, and while J and I chatted Katinka jumped off my lap and wandered around nearby.  I ought to have remained vigilant and still been checking for approaching dogs, but I hadn't seen J for a proper chat for ages and I was engrossed in conversation.  Before I could do anything about it a muzzled, but unleashed, greyhound was attacking Katinka.  The owners couldn't get hold of their dog and it continued to terrify and attack Katinka who was wild with terror.  Her claws were out, all her fur was on end, she was spitting and hissing, and rolling on the ground in fear of her life with legs everywhere.  If the dog hadn't been muzzled then Katinka would have been savaged.

In the commotion Katinka was tangling her lead around my wheelchair, which further limited what help I could give her, and whichever direction she went in the dog followed.  She was frantic.  I was frantic.  

The dog's owners eventually grabbed hold of their pet and sloped off, but J had tried to get hold of Katinka to stop her from tangling herself up any more.  I had just been about to say to J not to touch Katinka because she would be so panicked she'd attack, but I wasn't quick enough, and I feel terrible that J sustained quite serious injuries to her hand because I think Katinka must have thought that the greyhound had got her and she was fighting back.

I accompanied J back to her home and made sure she was in the house with her husband before I left, but I knew she would have to go to hospital.  Until then my priority had had to be getting J home, and only after I'd left her could I tend to Katinka, trying to calm her and comfort her.  All her fur was still on end, her eyes were wide, her ears were back, her tail bushy.  She was very stressed, and now we were in a street that Katinka didn't know so she was even more anxious, but my gentle cuddles and calming voice seemed to help a little.

We got to the corner of the first road I knew she would recognise and I stopped again to try calming her some more. I felt her relax a little, but literally a second or two later she was startled by someone heaving a huge sack of onions onto their shoulder.  The unusual sound, movement, and size of the object freaked Katinka out completely and she lashed out at me, biting my hand.  I was bleeding, but mostly worried about Katinka and getting her home.  A car revved loudly, and Katinka went into a blind panic.  I have never really thought about that phrase until now - blind panic - but I really think that Katinka was so panicked and terrified that she couldn't see properly, couldn't recognise me.  We have a very close bond and she is usually extremely protective of me, but all of a sudden she was staring at me with wild eyes, hissing, spitting, and growling at me.  She lashed out, swiped my glasses off my face, caught my cheek, neck, and upper lip with her claws, sank her teeth into my hand again, and dug her claws into it deeply.  I needed to break that eye contact with her to break the threat she perceived, but I still needed to see what was happening so I raised my other arm to block her view of my eyes.  She eased off a little, but still had her claws in my hand and I was bleeding quite a bit from both my hand and my face.

Most unusually, there were very few pedestrians on the street, but eventually I was able to ask someone going into the nearby takeaway if they could pass me my glasses from the ground and if they had a tissue.  She retrieved my glasses and went into the takeaway.  A young man working in the takeaway came out with a wad of paper napkins and he passed them to me, but I told him to be careful and not to touch the cat because she was so stressed.  Katinka hissed at him, but still had her claws in my hand so didn't lash out at him.  He said he felt helpless because he couldn't get near me, but just his presence was reassuring to me, and the napkins helped to stem some of my bleeding.  He asked if there was anything at all he could do to help, but I knew that what I really needed was to get Katinka home to her own environment where she knew she was safe and there were no unusual noises or movements.

I eventually managed to pull my hand free of Katinka's claws and contained her anxieties and terror on our short trundle back home where my carer was waiting to be let in.  We got inside, I undid Katinka's harness, and let her realise she was now back home while I went to the bathroom to sort myself out.  The shock and horror of the whole series of events soon hit me and within a minute or so I was almost passing out, but I was able to call through to my carer who got me through to the bedroom, onto the bed, and then cleaned my wounds.  It was actually the near-passing out that seemed to bring Katinka back to herself, and suddenly she was protective of me again, sensing that all was not well with me, but it was still over an hour from the initial dog attack until Katinka relaxed her fur down and was more her normal self.

I rang NHS 111 for some advice, and they seriously did ask, 'Was it a normal sized cat or a big cat?'  They advised me to make my own way to hospital as soon as possible and definitely 'within the hour.'

Katinka couldn't settle properly that night, and I'm not surprised because it was such an horrendous event she'd suffered, but we did both eventually sleep after I'd got back from A&E/MIU, where I also saw J (not surprisingly).  I saw J briefly again when we both went for review yesterday at the hand trauma clinic, and I wonder if I will again tomorrow.

It was all so terrible for everyone.  I am immensely thankful that Katinka was physically unharmed, though I do think that any dog that needs to be muzzled should also be on a lead at all times because clearly they are prone to lashing out or chasing, particularly breeds such as greyhounds that are bred and trained to chase small creatures.  However, I don't blame the dog because it is just its instinct.  I don't blame Katinka either because she too reacted naturally out of abject terror.  Having said that, I can't help but feel some responsibility for J's injuries that are far worse than my own, but she too has generously said it's just one of those things.

Katinka is far from a beast.  She is a delight, and she is now recovering from her very traumatic experience.  I knew last night that she was going to be okay when we had cuddles and this is how relaxed she became...

So that is why I have been delayed doing the next leg of my journey, but I am hoping to get going tomorrow, albeit bandaged and sore.  As much as the prospect of cycling 87km fills me with trepidation, I'd much rather that than find myself needing surgery, which is the alternative.

I'll see you again when I get to Wellington