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Still raining hard, realised after a while that we were going to be here another night, and after we finished the last crumbs of flapjack we were out of supplies. We sipped coffee until early lunch time and decided to make a dash for the Beaulieu Road Inn.
The pub was great, it was wonderful to be on a chair, in a bar after a day spent laying or squatting in the tent. The lunch menu looked really enticing and we managed to get a bar tab going because we were running short of cash. Drank ale, I had a cracking fish pie while Kez enjoyed her steak and kidney, we were just ordering another pint and considering what me might have for dinner from the evening menu when the barmaid informed us that they closed at three o’clock for a couple of hours. Pretty bloody inconvenient really, just as we were getting comfortable, so kez bought a bottle of wine to take away and we cycled back to the camp for a boozey snooze and a surprisingly good shower before heading back to the pub once again for dinner and more ale! The New Forest isn’t so bad. After a very pleasant evening we wobbled back to the camp, Kez decided she was too wobbly and it was too dark to cycle down the private road to the camp site, much to my drunken consternation, so we walked huffily pushing the bikes. Thankfully… It had stopped raining.

It was raining lightly when we woke, Mike produced his rusty camping gaz stove and a dented kettle and got a cuppa going. Michelle looked like she’d rather be anywhere else than this wet, muddy, chilly field and told Mike as much, quite a few times. It was about now that Mike pointed out that he had been bitten numerous times all over his legs. little red bumps covered his shins, mine were the same and upsettingly, so was my whole forehead.It looked like I had a bad case of chicken pox. I was rapidly going off the New Forest.
After gamely frying up some rather sad looking hotdog sausages under a brolly, Mike and Michelle kindly gave us the rest of the booze and breakfast supplies, stuffed their tent in the boot of the car and drove off squishily with a wave and a pitying glance at Kez.
Kez and I looked at each other. The rain was getting harder, Kez’s jacket was still hanging on a fence post, soaking wet. We decided to zip back into the tent and wait to see if it would stop. And waited, and waited. We had a long snooze, and still it rained. We considered heading for the pub which we’d passed a mile up the road, but neither of us could really be bothered. We had wine, beer, food and coffee. So we stayed in the tent for the entire day, relaxing to the constant pitter patter of torrential rain, nibbling flapjack and dangerously cooking up a dinner of sausage and egg in the tent porch. As far as I’m aware it didn’t didn’t stop at any point during the night.

After a bit of a lay in and a breakfast of egg and tomato rolls we started packing up. I was looking at the map tossing up wether to stick to the more direct A3054 across the Isle to Yarmouth, or wether we’d be better off taking to the B roads for a more meandering run, when a young bloke who must have arrived during the night with a huge tent asked if we needed directions. He said the A road was quite a good cycle, not to busy or hilly, so we thanked him for the advice and set off for Yarmouth.

A pleasant ten miles or so later we found ourselves dropping into Yarmouth, blue skies and blue seas with various yachts bobbing around made a for a nice view, we quickly found the ferry terminal, and chatted to another cyclist waiting to cross.

The skies were definitely darkening now though, and as we boarded the ferry it was starting to spit. We found the lounge and bar, took the opportunity for a pint of ale and settled into our seats for the crossing. It took considerably longer than the Seacat to Ryde, and the weather had definitely caught up with us. Our poor bikes stuck out on the deck would certainly be getting wet, and our friendly cyclist suggested we bolt for the ‘Wagon and Horses’ pub when we docked in Lymington. Never ones to ignore local advice we did just that, managed to get our bikes under cover as it started lashing down and decided to stay put for some lunch.
We gave Mike and Michelle a call to see if they’d made it into the new forest and they informed us that they’d been driving round having difficulty finding a camp site that wasn’t either full or flooded. I hadn’t considered the possibility that it would be difficult to find a camp site in such a popular national park, but apparently that was going to be the case.
The rain eased and we decided to make a bolt for Brockenhurst, but we hadn’t got far before it came back with avengence. So heavy that it was difficult to see, the sides of the roads flooded to the point where the only tarmac that wasn’t submerged was a couple of feet in the middle. Cars wooshed past splashing us with their wakes and I began to think about stopping at the next B&B.
Just then a car pulled in front of us and it was Mike and Michelle, they were fairly amused at our bedraggled appearance, and I don’t think Michelle could quite believe what I was putting Kez through. They arranged to meet us in Brockenhurst and before long we were sitting in a packed bar, full of other refugees from the weather. Motorcyclists sat in their creaking colourful leathers, grimly dripping on the wooden floor, kids on holiday played pool and through the window we watched a bike hire company hosing off dozens of muddied mountain bikes that had been returned early.
I managed to get a dry pair of boxers out of a pannier and changed in the toilet, which made things a bit more comfortable.
Mike and Michelle showed up soon after, with the news that they’d found a site called Decoy Pond Farm that would take us, about eight miles up the road. The rain had stopped again so we bought a load of booze and meaty supplies for Mike’s disposable barbecues, waved them off, crossed our fingers for the rain to hold off and followed. It didn’t take long for us to reach the site, thankfully without having to suffer any more deluges and I was genuinely excited to find out Mike and Michelle had brought 4 camping chairs with them!
Mike had pitched his £15 bargain ebay tent and was gamely trying to inflate his double air bed, however after every few pumps something gave way and the air kept escaping.

I managed to upend the barbecue just as the finest pork chops were ready, dumping the whole thing upside down on the grass, which was a bit upsetting, but muddy, sooty meat is ok if you stick Wetherspoons mustard on it.
We were all slightly perturbed when a bunch of fellow campers started swinging an axe about, whacking lumps of wood, but it was ok, they were just making a bonfire, an activity apparently allowed on this site. In fact once it was going they did invite us over to sit round it, but we were too busy cooking the last of the sausages, and frankly they were a bit scary.
Midges danced happily on the thermals from our insect deterrent citronella candle, Michelle got happy on vodka and played with a glow stick, we all enjoyed furiously masturbating Mike’s shake-powered torch (ebay bargain), and eventually we boozily zipped into our tents blissfully unaware that the harmless little midges had been feasting violently on every millimeter of exposed flesh amongst us.

Up, breakfasted, packed and on the road by 9am. We wanted to get a ferry across to the Isle of Wight from Portsmouth, and decided the easiest way to get there would be to cycle down to the bottom of Hayling Island, where you can get a little ferry across to Portsmouth, avoiding much of the city traffic. Having crossed the long bridge to Hayling Island the heavens began to open so we ducked into a garage forecourt and grabbed a few snacks. A police cyclist turned up looking for cover as well and he told us that there was a pretty decent cycle path that ran right down to the south of the Island, so when the rain eased we took a pleasant ride down to South Hayling, and before long found to our pleasure that the ferry landed right next to a pub, so we ordered a pint of ale (half a bitter top for Kez) and sat down to wait.
The ferry captain was a pleasant chap who took interest in our adventure and told of his own cycling exploits across germany before landing the boat and jumping on his own bike to whizz off for lunch.
The wind was against us again as we slogged our way along Porstmouth seafront, looking for signs to the Ferry terminals, and we were both a bit weary when we got there. We took a couple of snaps of the spinnacker tower and caught the Seacat to Ryde. The comfy arm chairs, gentle rocking and low hum of the Seacat had us nodding off almost instantly and it seemed a shame to have to get off so quickly.
Our camp site was some miles west of Ride, and once we’d hauled ourselves up the steep hills out of the town we were pleased to find a huge empty green site with washing machine and tumble drying facilities. We’d arranged to meet friends Mike and Michelle in the New Forest the next day, and we weren’t sure how hard the ride across the Isle would be, so after doing a load of washing and stuffing ourselves with egg, bacon and tomato rolls washed down with a bottle of JP Chenet we retired for an early night.

Had a lay in till 7.45 today! Coffee with bread and butter for breakfast while I tried to map out todays journey. We fancied having a look round Chichester, it being a city neither of us had visited previously, so I found a campsite marked pretty near and decided to head for that. First though we cycled the few miles into Bognor Regis to look for a decent breakfast and found a good fry-up in ‘Heather’s Café’. Time was on our side so we took a sunny walk down the promenade before heading off toward Chichester. It was an easy ride with decent weather and we made it to ‘Lakeside Holiday Village’ just south of the city by 1pm. I asked the woman in reception for a pitch for the night and was a bit surprised when she refused. ‘Sorry, we’re booked up’ she claimed. ‘It’s the Festival of Speed and I’ve got two hundred bookings coming in today’. I pointed out that we were one small tent and no vehicle but she was adamant. I shrugged and walked out of the reception hut to tell Kez she’d have to get back on her bike. She took this news rather less calmly than I had.
‘What!?, there’s a huge empty field!’ she shouted.
‘I think she’s lying!’ She yelled, ‘She just doesn’t like the look of us!’ Slightly unreasonable I thought, surely we didn’t look that rough after five days on the road? At this point the reception woman emerged sheepishly from her guard hut, glanced at Kez’s very best face-of-thunder and asked how long we had wanted to stay.
‘One night’ I repeated and somehow this suddenly seemed to change her mind. ‘I’ll fit you in then, it should be ok’ she said. So we found ourself a nice flat pitch near some lovely big trees, set up the tent, dumped the panniers and rode off unladen for the short trip into Chichester.
A pleasant afternoon was had appreciating the Cathedral, appreciating some beer, and appreciating the abundance of free condiments in the obligatory Wetherspoons pub. It might be soulless in those places but at least you can pinch handfuls of pannier friendly sauce sachets as the staff try and work out what the grunting dole bludger chavs and dribbling OAPs are trying to order for their lunch.
We found a local produce market which was just closing up, but managed to get some beautiful local lamb chops and some fresh organic garlic, still attached to its long green leaves, and decided to head back to the camp site for dinner.
While perusing the OS map in the pub earlier I had noted a footpath that would take us into the campsite from the back, so I was quite pleased with myself when we found it easily. Kez was a bit sceptical, it was a bit bumpy, but it took us past a number of beautiful lakes, and we were both delighted and surprised to find a pair of swans with a huddle of little fluffy cygnets right on the edge of the path. Clearly the father swan didn’t like the look of us because he made a quick exit, but the mother seemed to be fairly unruffled by my photo snapping, just giving a gentle hiss when I moved a bit too close. A wonderful sight though, and one that made the whole day worth while.
We returned to our tent to find that the entire field had been taken up by tents, sporty cars, gazebos, motorbikes and crates of cheap lager. Presumably these were the festival of speed people. Throbbing engines stood idling noisily for no apparent reason, exhausts belched and barryboys lounged around on their daft looking motors. Our lovely lake side paddock had turned into some kind of Mad Max shanty town!
We settled down with our little meths stove, ignored the hubbub around us and cooked ourselves a wonderful meal of garlicky lamb chops, then decided to try the holiday village bar.
This turned out to be a rather grim venue full of rough cockney mobile home dwellers, and their kids playing arcade machines noisily so I necked a couple of dodgy John Smiths and we trudged back to the tent, for what was presumably going to be a noisy night of lager fuelled speed festival type partying. As it turned out, the weather turned to hell. The rain lashed, the wind roared, the parties petered out and our little tent kept us nicely snug.