The first example is on the A339 near Thatcham.
Carrots, Wilto and I had just finished such a lovely weekend, which may come as some surprise when one learns that we were in Wales. Despite a reputation for enhanced precipitation, the various valleys and hills failed to deliver any rain, despite looking threatening at times, and we had a top weekend weaving our way along near-deserted mountain roads and passes. I won't succumb to worn out cliches about ribbons of tarmac unravelling across the countryside, no.....I'll come up with my own version....the roads were like an unfurling piece of asphalt string, very flat smooth string at that.
Utterly fantastic despite the intentions of occasional suicide sheep, with some top company too.In true Seveneering style we stopped overnight at a simple campsite with minimal equipment, making for a reasonably easy get away in the morning, and our minimalist approach had the advantage of giving us a good excuse to make for the nearest cafe where tea and breakfast awaited without, apparently, any sense of humour on the part of the cafe owner who looked a little bemused when Carrots joked that we wanted a table for three hundred in the deserted early morning eatery.
Making the most of our Taffian weekend we retraced some of our route from the previous day, with the Seven proving a frequent claim that when it comes to bikes it can more than keep up. Towards Monmouth I did battle with a biggish sports bike ridden by a fat bloke who blasted along the straight bits, then petered out in the bends. And his bike looked like it was inspired by Batman's iPod.
Then we gently wove our way home over more unfurled string of asphalt although being Sunday afternoon, the closer we got to London, the slower the traffic got.
Our target for the afternoon was Nelson's Diner, near Thatcham, which is showing considerable promise in becoming a favourite haunt to rival the Market Diner. Late afternoon tea in an American diner.....surreal, but great.
After the Market Diner though, the grit set in with heavy gravel scattered liberally across the A339. Utter rubbish and, typically poor slap dash road repair. It was everywhere, literally lying loose on top of the old road. And I simply cannot see how this lazy "refurbishment" can be considered an improvement. The surface is not only rougher, it pebble dashes passing cars and, for those who dare to give it some beans, the small stones give all the grip of marbles.
Once home, I de-gritted the car and with the surplus creating a small rockery in the garage.
Then on to some maintenance. heavy cornering in Wales had taken it's toll on the wheel bearings with a noticeable clonk coming from the front off-side. But this wasn't normal wear and tear.
A little disassembled investigation revealed the felt washer that seals the back of the hub had come adrift, effectively opening the innards to grit and corruption, the worst the Welsh roads had to offer. The real irony is that it was a felt seal that gave way, a wool derived product, as though the sheep of Taffialand were getting their own back.
