Bikepacking Wales – a very bad idea*

Introduction, or mynediad

There's a problem with this whole Wales thing. Somewhere around the 3,000th sheep milestone, I promised myself it would be rude to complain about a country whose human population is four times smaller than its sheep. However, afterward, I repeatedly doubted my resolve. My internal opinion, like the areas I visited, remained highly volatile.

For the entire four (or five, depending on how you count) days of riding, I've felt a slight discomfort in my merino shirts. I see that fluffy look in thousands of eyes, full of reproach and disgust.

There's also a slim chance that when I bought tickets to Wales, I confused it with Scotland or Ireland. I'm not sure which, as I haven't been to either. The whole United Kingdom, Great Britain and the British Isles, is a bit complicated. So much so that at the last minute, somewhat foolishly, I checked the entry rules and found out that a paid visa was required. But this is coming from someone who thought William Wallace (Braveheart) was from Wales. Wikipedia's list of 100+ most famous people from Wales I think I only remember Anthony Hopkins (the name seems familiar) and Catherine Zeta-Jones (though I don't know where from).

In any case, we can be convinced to come to Wales by the idea of green hills, beautiful coast, millions of sheep, stone castles, as well as cheap tickets and numerous flights from Warsaw, on very good dates – just like mine, which fit perfectly into a long weekend and cost 1000 PLN for a round-trip ticket with a bicycle.

But the price of these flights doesn't matter at all, because after about the third night it turns out that a holiday somewhere in the middle of Africa or Asia would be cheaper.

I will boldly say that Wales should be one of the last countries for the type of travel I doAt least in season. Although probably off-season too, because who likes riding in the rain and cold?

The main disadvantage (or advantage) of the entire UK is that you don't have to be there to experience it. When you map out a route on Komoot or even Google Maps, everything is so meticulously described and photographed that you feel like you've seen the entire route before you even get there. Unless, of course, you let your freestyle skills loose – like I did. So if you're bored at work, I encourage you to zoom in on random places – you might find some gems, like microwave in the fenceso that the baker has a place to leave fresh bread.

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• No accommodation available.
  After my recent trips, I was really looking forward to going somewhere civilized. That there would be shops, accommodations, restaurants, life, people, and generally, it would be easy. Well, it wasn't all that. I mean, yes, there were accommodations. About one every 50 kilometers. Unless you don't want to pay 1,000 złoty per night, then it's more like every 80 kilometers. Of course, this doesn't necessarily mean that the closest one is in the direction you're going. And even if it is in that direction, the vector leading to it usually runs counter to the expected direction. I don't think I've ever seen such expensive hotels anywhere. Not even in Singapore or Yorkshire. I mean, I saw one in Charzykowy later, but I'll come back to that.
  
  The Welsh seem to know this, so the country consists mainly of campervans and mobile homes. I've never seen so many tin cottages in such a small area. An Englishman I met on the last day said that if he wanted a reasonable place to stay in the area now (June), he'd look for one in January and pray for good weather.
  
  
• You can drive, just slowly
  Wales isn't a place for fast cycling: either it's impossible, or it's pointless, or it is possible, but only for a short while, because then they'll be scraping you off the hood of the car. Let me explain. A large part of the route I covered was on designated cycle routes. They're narrow, winding, on every possible surface, and they bypass... everything. They're perfect routes for a family trip with a tent. There are some parts of the country where it's possible, but it's a bit like going on holiday and training on a bike. lemondce along the S8 route.
  And then there are those side roads, each big enough for one car and a 30% bicycle, with wild hedges growing on the sides, obscuring any view. A car only appears on them every few to several dozen minutes, usually at the most unexpected moment. All of this makes my kilometers pass very slowly and significantly more tiring than the route profile would suggest.
  
  Drivers, on the other hand, have a higher level of patience, especially from the perspective of Polish pathology. Although the English themselves always emphasize that driving there is death. Cars overtaking me completely pull into the other lane, and if that's not possible, they won't overtake me. I often feel like getting off my bike, knocking on the window of the car in the cordon behind me and saying, "Man, you could fit 100 times." Especially since I ride with a mirror and have to watch. But it doesn't seem to bother anyone. It's as if no one is in a hurry. I believe it's really hard to die on the road through no fault of your own... because it's very easy to die through your own fault. I've already written about this regarding Yorkshire.
  
  If you are looking for sample routes, they are here: https://www.visitwales.com/things-do/adventure-and-activities/cycling-and-mountain-biking/top-long-distance-bike-rides-wales
  
  
• There aren't that many sheep
  There are plenty of sheep, but not in the way you'd expect. There simply aren't many people most of the time. For sheep enthusiasts, I DEFINITELY recommend Yorkshire (which is quite close by), for example. I don't know where there are more of them, but the higher, English hills mean you can see more of them. So, I'm a bit disappointed with the sheep. Remember, the photos posted online are SELECTED. Nobody (probably) posts photos from a 1,000-kilometer route that say, "Oh, this was boring. And here was nothing. And here was so-so, not even ugly, just bland."
  
  
• There are not that many hills
  Wales is home to the world's steepest road – it's probably like all those other "highest" things in the world. I mean, no one checks it, so anyone can write that their town has the world's smallest pub… or the highest. That doesn't change the fact that I expected my knees to die. I've only walked the bike once, though I might not have had to, and I have a 1:1 gear ratio. These aren't the Czech Karkonosze Mountains.
  
  
• The hills are not that big at all
  If you enter the following phrase into Google: Snowdonia, then the great Welsh mountains will leap out at you. Indeed, driving between them gives you the impression of being in high mountains. Except, as it turns out, the highest peaks are a thousand meters high, and the asphalt lies very, very far from these peaks. The highest road is Gospell Pass, which I reached somewhat by accident. Well, I had it on the route, but definitely not as a "mountain." It's also not close to Snowdonia. The highest climbs in the country are therefore a maximum of 300-400 meters. Most don't exceed 100-200 meters.
  
  
• The weather is a joke
  In Wales, it's generally cold and rainy – that's why it's mostly sheep that live there, and they're practically always in down jackets. Badam-tss. When it's cold and chilly, it's cold and chilly, and on top of that, it's windy, so it's not the best weather for cycling. And when the sun finally comes out and it's warm, the whole country takes the day off and heads to the seaside or the mountains.
  
  
• There are trains
  A major advantage that makes life much easier is that many towns are connected by trains (which take bikes). Apparently, so you can shorten your route to the hotel if you happen to find one, or reverse a section of the route to ride with the wind. I'm writing this in the section on disadvantages because Transport for Wales ripped me off for £20 and I took offense at them. I will quote my dialogue with the ticket agent at Carmarthen railway station:
  
  – I'm sorry, my train, for which I just bought a ticket from you, was supposed to leave 10 minutes ago, and I didn't see it on the timetable.
  - Because he has already left
  – But I've been standing on the platform for 30 minutes and I haven't seen it leaving.
  – I didn't see it either, because I'm sitting here, but since it was supposed to leave 10 minutes ago, it probably left.
  
  So I decided that even if I died of exhaustion and starvation, I wouldn't travel there by train again. My Welsh tombstone would read: "Here lies Maciek and his unsullied honor."
  
  
• Young Welsh men are scoundrels
  I don't know how it works. People are mostly incredibly nice. The older guys serving me in hotels are downright caricatured with their overuse of words like "lovely," "my dear," and "that's wonderful." The younger guys are cool too; at gas stations, everyone greets me with "Hey mate! What's up?!" Generally, I'm "mate" to all the younger guys. It's just that in everyday life, the latter group seems to be overrepresented by the classic "Karyn and Sebix." Teenager moms with strollers, in clothes made of less material than my sweatshirt, are a classic sight. Guys tearing through town in their Golfs, loud music and screeching tires. Fights, shouting, and insults outside pubs. Conversations over beers consisting mainly of every possible variation of the word "foking."
  
  

• Language
  I know speaking English in the UK is poor, but Wales is a whole other level. Here, 20% people speak Welsh, and I'm almost certain it's a made-up language that makes no sense. Words with five consecutive consonants and words that don't fit on a 4K monitor are commonplace here. As for English, when they focus, it's fine, but if you want to eavesdrop on conversations (which is what I do every evening at the hotel), you have no chance.
  
  
• The most overpaid hotels
  I'll boldly say that every single night was the most overpriced night of my life. I sleep in expensive accommodations, usually located above a restaurant, pub, or something else that makes mind-numbing noises. As I also experience a record heatwave, I discover that air conditioning hasn't yet arrived in Wales. In every single room, my brain is boiling. The number of pillows on the beds tries to compensate. There's at least one for every internal organ.
  Don't be fooled by the prices of my accommodations, you won't find them that low :-)
  
  

And here's a very important note:

This post is being written while I'm in Kashubia. While driving through the local Heart of Darkness, the town of Charzykowy, I decided to check the prices of accommodations near Lake Charzykowskie during the season. There's a slim chance that all the information I've been sharing on the blog for a while now regarding prices is completely off the mark. Perhaps my mind was frozen in the days when accommodations cost 80 złoty per person. Or perhaps it was frozen in Africa. Every conversation I have with friends who have gone on family vacations anywhere in Poland reinforces this belief.

A comparison of this country with Uganda also comes to mind:

In summary: I highly recommend it if you enjoy the coast, are trekking (or going by car), have plenty of free time, and also bring a tent… and a raincoat. I also recommend it if you've already visited many places in the world and have unlimited funds. Although then there are probably better places. So, I don't really know, I don't know anything about it. Rely on other blogs – maybe more travel-oriented ones; I wouldn't recommend Wales myself. Which, of course, doesn't change the fact that I enjoyed it.

Route.

I am deliberately not including the exact route – it is not worth following :-)

Wales is surprisingly small, and returning eastward, I had to be careful not to cross into England. My overnight stay in Oswestry, quite unexpectedly, was in England.

Fuck, triangle plug – Plwg triongl ffycin.

I check into Liverpool at 7:40 a.m. local time. I know Liverpool isn't in Wales, but as they say, it's "close enough." My plan is perfect, because I want to spend the next eight hours working from the airport, then assemble my bike, drop my bag off at the hotel, and hit the road without wasting a single minute of my free time. I even have a credit card that allows me several visits a year to airport "VIP lounges." This is important because they offer free food, and in my mind, I envision how eight hours of free food will pay for the entire trip (financially and gastronomically). Unfortunately, this lounge is probably hidden somewhere in the departures hall, because I can't find it. So I take a comfortable couch against the wall, next to the power outlet.

I have the distinct impression that Liverpool Airport is used to receive and discharge Poles arriving for work and Englishmen flying to Majorca. Consequently, traffic on a Wednesday morning is minimal. If it weren't for the people regularly approaching me and indignantly shouting, "Fuck, there's a triangle plug here too!" upon seeing a power outlet, I'd say it was luxurious. And if it weren't for the machine that periodically plays incredibly loud music. If you could insert a pound into it and click "don't play anything now," I'd probably go bankrupt.

A few meetings, PowerPoint presentations, and Excel spreadsheets later, I could start my vacation. The nearest hotel, of course, refused to hold my empty suitcase for security reasons. They informed me that I'd made a reservation there through Booking.com, so I had to cancel it and look for another option. I had two options: head straight to one of the "Storage somethings," of which there were at least a few in the area, or risk another hotel. This time, "on Jasia Street"—meaning, without asking. I booked accommodation for Sunday and decided to just go and tell them I wanted to leave my luggage. Worst-case scenario, I'd be turned away, and I still had to stay somewhere.

Crowne Plaza Liverpool – John Lennon Airport by IHG – 345 PLN

The Crowne Plaza Liverpool John Lennon Airport by IHG is a very nice place to stay, about two miles from the airport. It's close enough that I don't have to look for a bus, and I don't want to waste a taxi, but far enough that I regret my choice and the 40-minute walk up the crooked sidewalks. I promise myself I'll take a taxi on the way back, but deep down I know it won't happen. Onion faithful! The receptionist says it's no problem, so I wheel my bike and change in front of the hotel. I strategically put on my diaper in the disabled toilet (because that's the only place I can fit with my suitcase) at the airport – this might make walking a bit more difficult, but I don't risk a ticket for smoking a hot dog.

While the beginning of the route is quite pleasant, as the town of Hale, located next to the airport, is somewhat reminiscent of our familiar Swołowo and the Checkered Land, it gets a bit rougher later on. Maybe it's the exhaustion from waking up at 3 a.m., maybe it's the day's work from the airport, or perhaps, as usual, the fact that I haven't had anything to drink for 12 hours and my head is pounding. I filled my water bottles in the airport toilet, of course, but I guess the dishwasher cube didn't fully dissolve, because my isotonic drink tastes like 3% water and 97% dishwasher cube. For the first 50 kilometers, I ride through urban areas, and it's not particularly exciting. Then I hit the coast, which I plan to stick to for the next few hundred kilometers. The wind, of course, is so strong that I consider the possibility that working from the airport was more enjoyable than this vacation. Fortunately, things get a bit better after that, and I ride through a land of endless beaches and mobile homes. I'm pretty sure there are more of them than Welsh. It's very pleasant – the cycle path (part of the National Cycling Routes) is sometimes paved, sometimes gravel, sometimes concrete, but at 32mm it doesn't matter.

In Wales, you have to ask yourself a serious question: do you prefer to cycle or drive? I'll outline the difference below, though it's obviously a bit of a stretch. On the path, you can expect runners, walkers, dog walkers, plenty of hairpin turns, bridges, pedestrian zones, gravel roads, and more. On the road, which often runs alongside, the miles fly by much faster (I'm not sure if that's a plus), and the views can be more diverse. My route combines both, so sometimes I take the main road even though there's a cycle path nearby. I haven't been honked at once.

I first start looking for accommodation around the 130th kilometer – it's the town of Conwy, known for its castle and, as it turns out, the smallest house in Great Britain. The smallest house is called: Y ty lleiaf ym Mhyrdain fawrThe 191cm fisherman who once lived here probably said exactly that in the taxi while trying to get back from the pub.

Shock one: there's no available hotel in this town. Shock two: there's no hotel on my route for the next 80km either. Shock three: nowhere else is particularly good either. I manage to find a single room on Booking.com, in a castle 30km inland, kind of in the middle of nowhere. The upside is that there's a shop relatively nearby, so I won't be stuck in my hotel room. The downside is that along the way, the road is closed to traffic, and I have to find a detour. I end the day after 150km. That's 50km more than the minimum planned, so I'm already mentally calculating that I might drive less than planned on the following days, which, of course, never happens. Not having a pre-planned route means that every kilometer I add simply makes it longer – because I'm driving from morning until night.

Maenan Abbey Hotel – 354 PLN

The Maenan Abbey Hotel Ltd is wonderful, and its promotional price makes it even more wonderful. I even get breakfast there. I go to bed feeling like a true British lord – probably because of the number of pillows on the bed. It's true that the room is 100 degrees, but I don't care. I don't even bother taking my bike up to my first floor. I leave it right by the entrance, under the stairs and under a chandelier worthy of a real castle. If it's darkest under a street lamp, I don't know what it's like under that chandelier. But I doubt anyone would try to take my bike, especially since I've secured it to a chair with a rope (which I'm sure you can chew through).

My breakfast is served by a lady so nice it hurts my inner Pole. On average, every third word she puts in "lovely" and "my dear"The omelet he makes especially for me is probably the most lovely the world's omelet, and no one in the world will make a more commendable choice that day than I, choosing it and coffee. I don't normally drink coffee before cycling, because, as they say:know your limits"On the way, I'll be reminded why. From this day forward, I'll always carry toilet paper with me. But Wales is such a cramped country that I probably wouldn't be able to use it anyway, wanting to remain unnoticed and without trespassing.

St. Mary's Church on a pond among white hazel trees near the whirlpool under the red cave at St. Tysilio's Church, or Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

If the above word doesn't fit on your screen, that's fine. Most Welsh words didn't fit in my head. 

The second day consists of three stages, but if I were to crown any section of the route as the king, it would be this one. There's the coast, there are mountains, and there are also interesting things to see. Right from the start, because quite by chance, in a village with a castle (which I had to return to continue the route), I find the smallest house in Great Britain. If I had gone specifically to see it, I probably wouldn't have been satisfied, but encountering it by chance was quite a welcome addition. I also don't know what to expect from the "smallest house" – the name itself suggests it's probably not particularly spectacular. I continue along the coast, along the motorway and railway line, but on a cycle path.

I arrive on the Isle of Anglesey, where I have a very important stop to make: the railway station in Pwllfanogl. Someone, probably jokingly, named the station after the headline. I take a photo from every possible angle and continue on. I even pass a few tourists. The next few kilometers continue along the coast, as Komoot suggested it offered fantastic views and beautiful roads. In fact, the entire UK is so well-described and photographed on Komoot that you don't actually need to be there to know what it's like. A few dozen (or even dozens of) percent walls later, I somewhat regret my choice. Especially since it's unbelievably warm (especially for Wales), and of course, there are no shops nearby. Before turning back towards the crème de la crème of the entire trip, I save myself a petrol station. I buy a few sweet pastries, which turn out to be chicken, onion, and cheese pastries. In this country, you have to be constantly vigilant!

I'm entering: Eryri National Park, Snowdonia National Park. Yes, I still don't understand how this name works or why it has two national parks in it. Never mind, it's simply called Snowdonia. I'd prepared a route that should cover the best views. I was bracing myself for big mountains and tough climbs, but instead I climbed from 140 meters to 280 meters, and that was it. It's quite nice, because at the top you feel like you're actually in the mountains. Saying that Snowdonia is beautiful and worth it when you're in Wales is like saying that you should go to the Dolomites for a mountain walk. It's the ultimate cliché, but I pronounce it: yes, when you're in Wales, it's worth going to Snowdonia: probably both by bike and for a walk. Will you find accommodation nearby? I doubt it.

The rest of the day sees us return to the coast and an exceptionally pleasant drive. Good asphalt, little traffic, and a constant railway line, perfect for emergency situations. The further the sun sinks, the better.

On the way, in Harlech, I have one more very important thing to do. And as it turns out, two things. It's the steepest road in the world – almost 40%. Somehow, it's so strange that I'm driving downhill. I don't even try to turn around because I don't see a shred of chance of getting there, especially with luggage and 170 kilometers in my legs. From now on, in every discussion about steep roads, I can say, "He was driving the steepest." Then the haters will probably add, "Probably downhill," and when I reply, "Of course downhill," I'll leave only consternation in my wake.

After the descent, I feel adventure in my stomach. I suspect the mix of dishwasher-flavored water and the 10 kilograms of food I'd consumed the previous evening had finally created an explosive charge. In the land of campers and campgrounds, this shouldn't be a problem. However, the fact that I entered "public toilet" into the maps right after the descent and the results showed the nearest toilet was about 500 meters away is like something out of a bad comedy. Because, of course, it's 500 meters up that hill. Now my story could be even better. The conversation could go:

– Have you driven up the steepest road in the world?
- yeah, I shit myself.

Leaving even more consternation. Anyway, because I'm sure everyone is interested in this – I reached another toilet, somewhere by the beach. I'll also add, for posterity's sake, that emergency toilets are hard to find along the route, because Wales is compact, so it's hard to find "no man's land."

I also start looking for accommodation, and to my surprise, because I thought the previous day had been exceptional, there's nothing again. I either stop at the nearest town, which is just around the corner, and end the day at kilometer 190, or I drive to the next one. I do the math in my head and, of course, continue riding, calculating by the end of the day whether I'll make it before the grocery stores close... because the next town with accommodation is nearly 100 kilometers away. Not bad, even in Africa, accommodation wasn't that bad. So I finish in Aberystwyth after 270 kilometers. Most of them were very pleasant, but since the first half of the route passed exceptionally slowly on cycle paths, I arrive quite exhausted. At the hotel reception Four Seasons Budget (370 PLN) lies an envelope marked "Maciej Hop." On the other side of the envelope are instructions on how to get to the room, which is located on the third floor. You walk there through a corridor where the bike can only be turned upright. Imagine me, after 270 km, with a backpack full of groceries, maneuvering my bike and luggage through the air – it's a beautiful thing.

If you watched the episode "Friends" with bringing in the couch Up the stairs – that's exactly the situation. I have about three rooms to myself and a nice view of the surrounding area. So I spend the evening eating chips and sandwiches, full of excitement for the next day.

The sun will rise over the hill yet, i.e. Daw eto haul ar fryn.

A day that starts with maneuvering a bike down three flights of stairs has to be a good one. Or so it seems, because after that, everything should seem better. Not so in this case, however. Aside from the surprising leg pain and fatigue, it's a day composed mostly of unpleasant things. Firstly, it's so windy that when I stop to take a photo, I have to be careful not to fall. The ride is torture, and rain is constantly lurking in the distance. Secondly, the route is incredibly boring. Not that it's ugly, but simply boring. Around the 50th kilometer mark, I give up and decide to head for the nearest train station, from where I'll ride into the wind. Getting there isn't particularly easy, despite the crosswind.

I arrive in Carmarthen 25 minutes before my train to the capital, Cardiff, departs. So I buy a ticket and line up on one of the two platforms. It's a bit strange, because I can't see my train on any of the displays, and I can't quite make sense of what's happening on the platforms. I mean, something seems to be happening, but no train is leaving… especially not for Cardiff. I feel like my train only exists on my ticket and on Google Maps. Ten minutes later, I give up and get on my bike.

Only someone who travels for several days can judge behavior. The brain no longer functions as well as it should. This whole situation of suddenly turning in a different direction, looking for a train, then abandoning it, adding tedious kilometers and traveling against the wind seems completely pointless. I confirm, it didn't. Even for me, back then. The problem is:

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"on long journeys, things are easier to do than to plan or analyze."

– Maciek Coehlo

This "Jasio" technique is usually more profitable in the long run. And certainly during the holidays. I'm considering getting a sign for my sternum: "It'll work out somehow."

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For the next 100km, there's basically nothing of interest. I drive along a relatively empty road through fields and small woods. Only towards the end of the day do the hills and more interesting views begin. That's because I'm driving alongside the Brecon Beacons National Park – probably the second most famous in the country after Snowdonia. However, it's decidedly less impressive – at least from the perspective of a paved road.

There's no overnight accommodation along the route, of course, so even though the route leads north, I detour 30 kilometers south to the town of Newbridge. There's a suspiciously cheap hotel there, marked "The Hotel" on Google Maps. When I arrive, it turns out it's mostly a pub. The most British pub imaginable: beer and sweaty, well-built guys. Entering in my half-tight clothes, I feel like policemen entering the Blue Oyster, only in reverse. The bartender takes me to the second room, and from then on, I enter through the side entrance – probably out of concern for my well-being. I ask him for the nearest shop. He says a grocery store, but adds that it's very far away, and it'll be difficult on a bike, as it's uphill. After a moment, he corrects himself that I look fit enough to manage. Indeed, the shop is about a kilometer away and probably about 20 meters uphill. On the way, I buy two more fish and chips, which I'll be struggling with for the rest of the evening. My room is, of course, on the 2nd floor, with a narrow corridor.

The Newbridge Hotel – 259 PLN

That evening, I'm treated to another fantastic MMA festival, complete with screaming, brawls, flying dishes, bloody faces, and basically everything I associate with British youth. About two hours later, everyone's back together in the same pub.

The photos might suggest otherwise, but those 220 kilometers weren't particularly pleasant. Maybe it was fatigue, maybe the weather, or maybe the actual visual attractions were mild. Especially since the further south we go, towards the capital, the more cars, roads, flat terrain, and everything else I try to avoid.

Saturday, or Dydd Sadwrn

A sudden and painful weather change was forecast for Saturday. It didn't quite happen, as it remained unexpectedly warm for Wales. Instead, dark clouds appeared in the sky, refreshing me repeatedly that day with every possible rain, from heavy to invisible but soaking. I'll have to modify the route slightly, as it turns out the original route leads largely beyond the border – I missed it. Somehow, I didn't realize the country could be so narrow. For example, from my previous overnight stay in Aberystwyth, on the west coast, to the eastern border is less than 60km.

My expectations are moderately high, and my legs are feeling a bit better too – probably thanks to the massive amount of fish and greasy chips in my muscles. I start by crossing the Brecon Beacons. Maybe not through the middle, but over a previously chosen pass, or even two… the latter of which later turns out to be the highest road in Wales: the Gospel Pass. It also looks like a local cycling mecca, perhaps because of the weekend that has just begun. It's almost 400 meters of climbing, mostly along a very narrow road, where meeting a car forces you to stop and hug a hedge. It's very pleasant, though, despite the stress of the rain behind me: there are fern-covered hills, sheep, and peace and quiet. There's no signal, though, so my weather forecast stops constantly telling me: "A seven-minute shower is expected in 13 minutes, and then another, slightly heavier one in 43 minutes." This is very cool, but when traveling by bike, even very slowly, it is completely useless.

After the descent, all that awaits me is the endless return journey north: sometimes on country roads, sometimes on cycle paths, sometimes on local access roads – a bit of everything. The highest elevations I climb don't exceed 30 meters, although their gradient isn't necessarily suitable for riding with luggage.

I don't know if it's because it's Saturday, but I'm met by a staggering number of bikepackers. It's not like it's a group. Usually, they're single riders, sometimes two or three, but they're measured in abstract numbers – at least relative to the number of people without a bike and luggage. It seems like the entire country (or the English) gets on their bikes on Saturday mornings and rides a coast-to-coast route, with overnight stays along the way. I even check to see if it's some kind of organized event, but it seems not.

The ride is becoming a bit monotonous, and I'm increasingly choosing the "fast" option over the "scenic" or "potential" option. Usually, in such situations, I resort to a liter of Coke, which provides an unexpected boost of energy and zest for life. It's the same in Wales, though on this day, it's somehow working less well than usual. Among the thousands of pointless thoughts in my head, a new one pops up. It reminds me that during prolonged exertion, the brain works less well, or more diplomatically: more simply. Why do I keep choosing Pepsi Max, and how does it differ from regular Pepsi? It takes me a long time to find the answer, but it answers the question about its worse performance. I'm proud of myself and a bit surprised at the same time. It was a puzzle to the best of my ability.

In Newtown, around the 170th kilometer (at my pace and level of sightseeing, that's about 10 hours from leaving the hotel), I glance anxiously at Booking.com. I'm used to finding accommodations sparse, but this time it surprises me even more. This time, there simply isn't any. I mean, there is one, poorly rated, in the town I'm currently in—but that's still too early to end the day—by a good few hours. I'd have to sit and rest—I dread to think how many chips that would take. After that, apart from one for almost 300 pounds, there's NOTHING. At least for the next 100 kilometers, and these were kilometers during which I planned to do some sightseeing, like The Elan Valley—a valley with numerous dams—or Lake Vyrnwy, and then attack Snowdonia again.

There's no way this plan will work. I don't see ANY accommodation that would even fit. I don't see any that wouldn't fit either. So I'm modifying my route and driving random, small roads north to end up in England and sleep in what is probably the most overpriced hotel of my life. The Wynnstay Hotel & Restaurant (635 PLN) in Oswestry.

The views make up for it a bit Cebula pain – it's a bit like the Beskid Wyspowy Mountains. Additional compensation comes from the nearby Lidl and the kebab shop, where for 10 pounds I get a portion that's hard to beat. The hotel, where the air temperature naturally makes the water in my bottles boil, is located directly above the pub. So I fall asleep listening to every possible (and probably impossible) variation of the word "focking"Another thing is that I don't understand any of the other words, even though it's probably English, because I'm in England.

I'm a little disappointed about the places I missed, but I'm relatively close to the finish line and have another full day ahead of me, so I'm willing to make a slight adjustment and head back south. Both of these places are supposedly popular tourist spots, though judging by the photos, I can't quite justify it.

Rainy Sunday, or dydd Sul glawog

By Sunday morning, I already know that nothing will come of this plan. Firstly, because it's pouring rain, secondly, because it's cold, and thirdly, the wind is blowing towards my finish line, and I don't intend to waste it. I spend the first few hours mostly sitting at bus stops and watching water fall from the sky. I've seen enough; I've covered almost 900 kilometers in just over three days, and although my body is in surprisingly good shape, my head could use a rest by now. Finally, that state where I think about my desk, coffee, computer, and Excel and PowerPoint files on my monitors. This state of mind is very short-lived, so it has to be appreciated. So, I have one task: get to the hotel by Liverpool Airport and drive something beautiful: it rains on Horseshoe Pass, a road above 400 meters, cutting through the Clwydian Range & Dee Valley National Landscape. Along the way, I achieve considerable success by finding a souvenir shop in Llangollen that sells a handmade woolen sheep. I have a habit of bringing home handmade animals from various places. Believe it or not, this wasn't easy in Wales, but in, for example, in Bulgaria it didn't work at all.

After 70 kilometers of riding in the cold and rain, but with quite pleasant views, I reach more serious civilization and the border with England. At this point, I'm completely sure I don't feel like riding anymore, and for some reason, instead of taking the train, I decide to take the shortest route back, through Liverpool city center to the hotel. From then until I open my bike case outside the hotel, I swear about 113 times.

The River Mersey separates me from Liverpool – there's no bridge over it, of course (apart from the one to the east, where I started, which is about 40 kilometers away). There are, however, two tunnels, one of which you can even cycle through. I'm only two letters away from that honor. I misread the possible crossing times: in the summer, on Sundays, you CAN only cross it between 9:00 PM and 8:00 AM (during the week, it's 8:00 PM to 6:00 AM).

The alternative is the ferry. So I drive through the rain to the ferry port, which looks like it closed 20 years ago. And it probably is, because after a thorough search, I determine that nothing is floating there. So I drive to another port, which is quite close as the crow flies, but far away by bike, especially in the rain. It's better there; I even meet a man selling tickets. He explains, however, that it's pointless, because the next ferry is in an hour and would be quicker if I took the train – I remind him we're talking about crossing the river. I return to the train station and spend a dozen złoty to travel one stop.

In Liverpool, I was supposed to take a photo with the Beatles, but they're currently under renovation and impossible to get to. To revel in the Beatles (because you know: Liverpool), I'm going to see Ringo Starr's birthplace, which turns out not to be his birthplace, but simply the house from the cover of his solo album – it does have a cool mural, though. So I head to Penny Lane, where there are also some Beatles attractions, but since it's the weekend, they're closed – obviously. So I head on over to "Strawberry Field" – where I discover it's an orphanage. Fair enough, I've learned something, I can end this adventure. I grab my suitcase from reception, pack my things outside the hotel, walk through the downpour to a distant shop, and spend the rest of the day eating crisps on my bed. Believe it or not, I was happy that the hotel was right next to an ALDI, so I could spend Sunday evening eating like a pig in the hotel – just like a proper IT guy's vacation should be. Except ALDI closes at 4:00 PM on Sundays, and I check in at 3:58 PM.

In the morning, of course, I can't be bothered to take a taxi, so I push my suitcase for 3 kilometers over potholed sidewalks. I arrive home just in time to start work a little late. 

It was really nice, I would say that I will probably never go back there, but in retrospect the coast was quite nice for a stroll and a bike ride, so maybe in retirement, with a Brompton…

*for me