Today’s ride was really just about endurance. A seven hour motorway slog from Scarborough to Bath. Or close to Bath. I’m actually staying in a little cottage in the little – I’m not sure it even qualifies as a village – outside Bath, called Limpley Stoke. I’m currently waiting for the local pub to open. Happily, it’s no more than a 10 minute walk to said pub, The Seven Stars, which is in the adjacent (and actual) village of Winsley. The pub closes each day between 3 and 6. I’m told it’s a good pub with excellent food.

So… So far nothing much has happened today, except for the Tiger hungrily eating up miles, just under 300 of them. It felt like more. Still does.

So… As nothing much has happened yet today, I’ll begin with last night.

Scarborough is the kind of place that’s pretty without being beautiful. Filled with Victorian architecture, and crouched along a picturesque coastline, which it tries it’s best to spoil with arcades and small casinos, a beachfront fairground modelled on Coney Island, it feels…. faded. As if it hasn’t quite found a way to live up to its potential.

It does have an old, partially ruined castle, and large church, in whose churchyard Anne Bronte is buried.

(Admission: I don’t know how she ranks in relation to her sisters, as I haven’t read anything by any of the Brontes. Or Jane Austin, for that matter. The earliest woman novelist I’ve read was Virginia Woolf. Come to think of it, I don’t read enough novels by women of any period. I read some Atwood in university, and I’ve read some of Louise Erdrich’s books, and Nancy Huston. Alice Monroe, for short fiction. I should probably try to rectify that gap in my reading.)

Anyway, I wasn’t really looking for much from Scarborough. A place to sleep, a pub, dinner, maybe a a laundrette. I did well enough on every count except dinner. That was a bust.

I made it an early night. After Edinburgh, my liver needed a break! My hotel room was small, and a steep climb up three flights of stairs, but it was comfortable enough, and quiet, too. I ended up falling asleep to the sound of the waves.

Now I’m in this quiet little village in southern England. Tomorrow I’m heading a short distance to Bath proper, and to Solsbury Hill nearby, where Peter Gabriel had the epiphany that led him to quit Genesis. Afterward, I’ll be on my way to Wales. Laugharne, in particular, to visit the grave of Dylan Thomas.

I think the pub’s about to open, so that’s all for now.

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