After drought conditions had been declared across a lot of the country, the end of April brought winds and torrential rain – the most rain for April apparently, since records started in 1910. Under the conditions, Julie decided to abandon the ride but, nonetheless, one brave soul turned up at the start – Graham Black. Whether he braved the gale force winds and constant showers we’ll no doubt find out when the next club run – weather permitting – takes place.

Anna was perplexed by the quotation from the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales and requested a translation, which I am happy to provide:

When April with its sweet showers
has pierced the drought of March to the root
and filled the veins of every plant with the sap
that makes flowers grow:
When the southerly wind, with its sweet breath,
has brought the tender buds and shoots to life
and the Spring sun
has run half its course into the sign of the Ram
And many little birds make song
and stay half awake throughout the night
(compelled by Nature to sing their hearts away)
That’s when people feel the urge to go on long pilgrimages …

It seemed to be an apt description of another cold, wet, blustery April day, when the Plymouth Section set out their Sunday jaunt, though not to Canterbury, of course! Note that then – like now – there were droughts in March.  So … weather men, don’t despair. Things haven’t changed much!

Author and supposed leader -  Julie

I set off for the Tamar Ferry meet and at the Cot Hill junction met Andy E making his way there also. Waiting for us were George, Mike, Jean, Grahams B and R, and Roger F. I’d had apologies from Sue and Graham J early morning. I had already confessed to GB that I’d not had a chance to do any recci/risk assement for this ride due to heavy personal commitments, and had only planned a very basic direct route really. Once aboard the ferry GB consulted his map and it was decided that St Germans my original morning break was going to be too close for us as The Eliot Arms didn’t open until 11.30 Sundays. At first we thought about going to the Woolen Mill at Trerulefoot, but then eventually enroute that was changed to the Beach Cafe at Seaton, and we arrived there by 10.45.  Andy went outside for a smoke and to prove that the screen was showing live coverage of the beach outside found the camera and waved  and did a little dance for us!

We then set off for Talland Bay and had our lunch there. After that we headed for Duloe the original destination, and went into the field to see the standing stones and read about them. Roger left us between Talland and Duloe.  From there we headed back home calling in at The Windy Ridge, Trerulefoot for an afternoon cuppa (I really was beginning to flag by now) and sat out on the lovely newly decked area in the warm sun. Graham R left us here wanting to get back home, but for the first time in ages we stayed out as a group for most of the ride.  It turned out to be nothing like my quickly planned route; much hillier, a bit longer, but I’m sure more interesting. Thanks to Graham B for taking over because he knows the area relatively well,  and being first mate or riding shotgun – whichever expression is most appropriate in Cornwall!!  The two of us riding from Plympton covered more than 60 miles and according to Andy’s gadget the climb for the day would have been in excess of 1742 metres as we both had a hilly last leg home.

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Walking route from carpark at end of Burrator Reservoir up track to S. Hessary Tor and then west to Cramber. Down to river and along forest path back to carpark. Sunnay but cold with stiff wind on top.

Winter – William Shakespeare

  When icicles hang by the wall,  
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,  
And milk comes frozen home in pail,  
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
To-whit! To-who!—a merry note,  
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.  
 
When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,  
And birds sit brooding in the snow,  
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,  
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,  
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit! To-who!—a merry note,  
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Notes

Love’s Labour’s Lost, V.ii; written circa 1593

“blows his nail”—blows on his hands to warm them
“keel the pot”—cool the contents of the pot by stirring or pouring in something cold
“saw”—speech or sermon
“crabs”—crabapples