Day nineteen: Minehead to Chepstow

After walking for eighteen straight days, I decided it was time for a day off. Being at the end of the coastal path anyway, it was necessary to find transport to my next National Trail. I have decided that my next trail will be Offa's Dyke which will take me north along the border of England and Wales.

Took a steam train this morning. It followed the coast for a while passing campsites full of static caravans (English equivalent of a mobile home and popular to rent out for holidays) and speedo clad holiday makers, waving madly at the train as we chugged by. Something about a steam train that just makes people want to wave at it. Probably because it travels at such a perfect pace and makes wonderfully pleasing chugs and whistles.



The tranquility and antiquity of the steam train contrasted sharply with our next bus ride. The bus was full of families and their luggage, returning from Butlins holiday camp. Butlins is an institution over here and I am embarrassed to admit that even our family holidayed there once. Not sure if it has changed over the years but back then it was full of rides for the children, knobbly knees competitions and gurning contests for those without teeth, endless evening entertainment with ball room dancing, magicians and Tom jones wanna be singers. Disneyland the British way I suppose.

I felt kind if emotional as I left the south west coastal path behind and headed towards Chepstow and the start of my next challenge.

Lessons so far from Mick. That old lady flabby arms are called bingo wings; exclamation marks should not be used because most things are not worthy of such an emphasis; that it is not British to get excited and I should show restraint upon finding out the B&B has veggie sausages; that I shouldn't worry about my genetic predisposition to Alzheimer's and current difficulties with word finding because it is just as effective to replace nouns with "biggelly,bogelly, thingy monkey"; however when describing how you are feeling, "feeling good" is not acceptable and should be replaced with the Queen's English, "feeling fine thank you very much".

I have also learnt that Mick gets very grouchy without regular intervals of tea so we have to make sure these are scheduled in to our day.

So, after a grande latte for me and a cup of tea for Mick in Chepstow we headed out in search of Mrs Potts farm.

Mrs Potts was offering a field to camp in, evening meals and breakfast. This sounded delightful and gave us visions of a wonderfully plump farmer's wife with pots for hands, clanking away as she cooked us up wonderful culinary delights. This kept us focused and happy initially but our packs were heavy, it was hot, humid and Mick had an old map which did not match in anyway what we were experiencing. The locals were not helpful as they were unaware of any camping in the area and when we eventually arrived at the farm Mrs Potts was nowhere to be found. Instead of those wonderful culinary delights we had dreamt up, we suffered wild mushroom cuppa soups and stale rolls. Mick decided he would send Mrs Potts some brillo pads anyway as a thank you for using her field.

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