The silver beast sped through the night across the moors. Gary asleep, was in a dream where nobody would here him scream.  Phil had a steely eye on the road, lest the hounds should confront his path.  This time they were spared, and made it to Cockingford Farm, at the unearthly hour of 1am. 

Finding Albert in the morning light, safe and well, the HMC outdoor section was complete. The indoor section (currently 60 members and growing) of club, overcome with grief, remained in Hertfordshire. Albert showed off his incredible inflatable bike. With the slightest of tweaks this contraption could be stowed into an area the size of a matchbox.

With Albert purposefully pushing his bike up the hill towards Widecombe the boys sped past en-route to Hay Tor. Wearing nothing but the skimpiest of clothing it was soon discovered that, despite the sun, the howling wind of the moor brought a chill to the heart. Phil began to bleed, not from some evil attack, but the rough hard severe chimney he was leading. The next route, a difficult chimney Gary was leading also had a similar effect. Returning to the campsite the legs and arms were soon covered and then they returned. 

Moving over to Lower Man three more routes were played upon before they called it a day. Honeymoon Corner (S 4a), Raven Gully (S 4a), and Outward Bound (HVS 4c). While there they saw a spectacular fall of about 45ft from the line of Interrogation (E3 6a, 5b).  The guy should have been doing the VS 4c variant finish of Raven Gully. Instead a strange man in a cloak and a scythe had walked past and told him the wrong line to take. Traversing into the E3 line, each move precarious, he finally flew off, and so did the gear as it popped one by one…ten feet more and he would probably have decked out on a wide ledge.

That evening as usual ended up in a pub-crawl. Gary and Phil went to eat and drink at the Old Inn while Albert slept. Travelling down to the Rugglestone Inn they heard the following tale. It is purported to be an earthly portal to Hades through which the locals (burley farmers with extra-ordinary thick accents) can move to and fro. Paying for a pint ordered from the landlord is ill advised, as he only accepts souls and refuses to give any change. Eating there can also be a bit of a chore due to the menu consisting of dead goat…. Live goat and sometimes battered goat.  The tales proved to be true and running from their awful fate saw a light floating about 7 feet off the ground, heading straight at them. Fortunately this proved to be Albert, having had a couple of pints, riding his bike down the hill and wearing a head torch. They returned to the Old Inn for a few more ales.

Sunday was spent more leisurely with only the easiest of routes attempted on the way home.  Meanwhile the in

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ales in the local hostelry.

It should be noted that while we were canoeing, Norman was exploring some of the interesting walks around the forest, and into Monmouth as well.

Sunday dawned sunny, and we drove into Monmouth to hire some more canoes.  This time the hirers took the canoes, and ourselves, up the river to Lower Lydbrook, where we were dropped off, and left to paddle the 12 or so miles down the Wye, back to Monmouth.

The first few miles were in calm running water, gliding between the reed beds, down towards the Symonds Yat gorge.  However there was a niggling sound of disco music in the distance, and as we approached the main gorge, it turned into a 1000 watts of head-banging noise from a VW combi van, in a camp of hippies on the side of the river.  As we passed, the canoes literally reverberated in the water to the noise (it was not music).  There were groups of people zonked out on the river bank, probably brain dead from the noise, or other substances.  Phew (expletives deleted), it was great to get past them.

A few more miles of paddling brought us to the Symonds Yat rapids, which were low this year, and down which we canoed.  No one fell in (not even Richard), and we pulled out onto a small sandy beach just below the rapids, for a spot of lunch and a short rest.

After lunch, it was an attempt to canoe back up the rapids, some more successful than others.  Then on down the Wye, the wind starting to pickup in our faces, and the skies starting to darken.  We saw the nesting swans that the canoe hirers warned may attack us, but even as Richard canoed close, they failed to attack him.

An so, at the appointed time of 4pm, we hove around the last bend to see the stairs of the Monmouth rowing club in the distance, and Norman waiting patiently to take a few photos for posterity, before we disembarked and returned the canoes to the hirers.

A fairly uneventful trip, apart from Richard Goodey canoeing into the river bank, trees, logs, etc., every now and again.  No one fell out in the fast water running through the vast beds of reeds. All in all, a very pleasant weekend, with a just a few blisters and surprisingly, some aching legs.  Joe even threatened to repeat the weekend in a future year, on a different stretch of water.  If you are interested, please see Joe on one of the win