BoA to Port Eynon, Gower

With my blog name I am trying to carve out a niche: define my genre of travel, create an interesting identity. But, “Tales of a railway cyclist” makes it sound as though I am cycling along a railway track. How about, “Training and biking“? No, that sounds inappropriately sporty. “The mindful cyclist”? Too aspirational and cheesy. So I will leave as is, for now. Ideas on a postcard, please. 

At BoA it is raining. I am undaunted, equipped with my recently reproofed Paramo jacket, brand-new Gore-Tex trousers and gaiters, and Ortleib panniers. Smart and smug, I peddle the 3 minutes to the station. The idea is to take the train to Swansea and then cycle to the Gower, staying a couple of nights in the youth hostel at Port Eynon, and then do another train hop to get me to mid Wales for a couple more nights. The difference from my usual cycling is the weight of my panniers which – for the first time in four decades – include camping gear. I am excited about this, but it does cause a logistical challenge (the weight) and a fair quotient of am-I going-to-get-my-bike-off-the-train-in-time anxiety. So, in something of a tiz, I jump off the train at Swansea, only to discover it isn’t Swansea, it’s Port Talbot. A kindly woman pauses from slurping her tin of lager to put me straight. 

Take 2, and it’s the end of the line. Swansea may be the last metropolis on my trip. So I make use of the iPhone repair place near the station to allay my next anxiety – is there a problem with my phone charging super slow and draining charge super quick? Possibly – but the geek can’t help me. Heaven forbid I be driven to buy a map. 

Cycling out of Swansea the cycle path takes me around the Bay. I wonder what the vast stretches of sand look like in the summer season. Today they are bleakly beautiful. The route then goes inland. The cloud is virtually down to ground level and visibility non-existent. But the misty, green, gorse-strewn hills are pleasant company. 

The need to keep an eye on my phone is a good excuse for a coffee stop. Meanwhile, the rain continues with no let-up and, although my gear is performing fairly well, by the time I arrive at Port Eynon I am fervently hoping that the warden will allow me in before the 5 pm check-in. And lo, he does; there is a lovely bike shed for my bike (which doubles up as a drying room when the heating in my room doesn’t come on); and the hostel – converted from a lifeboat station – has a fabulous location right by the sea. 

Curiosity about my environment motivates me to stomp around the beach and village. Some diehard holidaymakers are trying – and failing– to launch their kite in the rain. The mobile caravan park has a modest grocery, which I have been informed has, “bits and pieces”. Sadly, this doesn’t extend to muesli and a litre of non-dairy milk, but I leave the place with a Ruth Rendell paperback sold in aid of the RNLI.  

Once back in the hostel, I find it impossible to contemplate going out into the rain yet again. So I dive into my food bag and supper is a repeat of lunch: a cheese sandwich, some nuts, an apple, and a satsuma. My fellow travellers are introverted families, squabbling quietly together. Very different from the camaraderie of an alpine mountain refuge. Bang bang bang… fire doors signal the movement of folk around the building. It’s going to be an interesting night.